


40 Days and 40 Fights

by dayari



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Denial, High School, Homophobia, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-22
Updated: 2011-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-22 22:59:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dayari/pseuds/dayari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High school AU. In which Arthur is (a) the best captain that the volleyball team has seen in ages, (b) too handsome for his own good, and also (c) decidedly not gay; although Merlin agrees with the first two, he's willing to bet that (c) is open for discussion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	40 Days and 40 Fights

**Author's Note:**

> Written for hanako_yume's birthday. :D The title was borrowed from the song by Badly Drawn Boy, and the song that Morgana listens to is "Like You Like An Arsonist" by Paris Texas. Thanks to Kura for the epic speedy beta!

Despite the pain in his swelled-shut eye and the prickling rush of heat that shoots straight down to his toes, it only takes Arthur about three seconds to push Merlin away.

 

***

 _(40 days earlier)_

In the midst of all the gossip about why in hell Arthur Pendragon, captain of Avalon High's volleyball team, had broken up with head cheerleader Sophia Tirmawr, no one really noticed Merlin at first.

Which would have been stupid, anyway—the rumor mill had more juicy specimen to tear apart than the scrawny new kid with the well-worn clothes, slightly befuddled smile and enormous ears. Arthur and Sophia were far more interesting subjects to gossip about, after all, especially with the way Sophia was making a spectacle of herself. She kept bursting into bouts of fake tears whenever Arthur walked past her in the hallways, and reminisced loudly over how Arthur had called it off in the middle of their romantic vacation, and stared at him from across the classrooms with a dramatically wobbly lower lip until one of her friends put a comforting hand on her arm. Arthur strongly suspected that she only did it so that the gaggle of friends/admirers/parasites that constantly surrounded her had something to do.

Even Arthur didn't really notice Merlin at first. One day, shortly after the summer break, his Biology teacher introduced him to the class, saying that Merlin Emrys had transferred from another school and that she hoped they'd collectively take him under their wing and help him accommodate during the next few weeks. Merlin smiled through her speech, a little awkwardly, and Arthur had to give it to him—he didn't _look_ nervous. He had his hands stuffed loosely into his pockets, but the set of his shoulders seemed relaxed and easy. Only the minute shifting of his weight from foot to foot betrayed his agitation.

Arthur only looked up at him when Mrs. Lake directed Merlin to an empty seat in the first row, and Merlin headed for the chair right in front of Arthur's. His hair was black, sticking up messily in a way that didn't look like he'd spent hours on it in front of a mirror in the morning, but rather like he'd been running his hands through it one too many times. He was a bit pale, but when he turned his back on them and sat down, Arthur saw that his rather large ears had gone red at the tips, supposedly from well-concealed embarrassment.

From the corner of his eye, Arthur could see that Lance looked intrigued, and he couldn't help smiling—he already knew who would be offering to show Merlin around the school grounds after class. Lance was like that, friendly and protective towards anyone who looked like they might need it. It was part of the reason why Arthur was sometimes glad that Lance wasn't in his team, and a significantly larger part of the reason why he was also Arthur's best friend.

On Arthur's other side, Owain took one look at the slightly frayed neckline of Merlin's shirt, grinned widely, and began to lob spitballs at the back of Merlin's head.

Lance sighed when the first glob of chewed paper landed in Merlin's unruly hair, and gave Owain an annoyed look. Arthur lowered his gaze back to the textbook, his mind already a few hours ahead of time, and tried to figure out the best way of informing their coach that their back row would need a lot of work after the long summer break.

When Merlin got up at the end of class, he calmly combed the bits of paper out of his hair, not looking annoyed in the least. A propos of nothing, Arthur got the feeling that Merlin had had a lot of practice not getting annoyed at this sort of thing, and he took care to swipe Owain with his bag when he got up, just a little.

Owain didn't seem to notice anything. But Merlin briefly looked back over his shoulder when he'd reached the doorway, and tossed Arthur a quick smile. It was little more than a brief curve of his lips, but it made Arthur blink in surprise at the warmth of it, and for some reason he found himself almost smiling back.

"Fag," Owain muttered under his breath, too low for Merlin to hear. Lance frowned and opened his mouth, and Arthur shouldered past both of them, not really intent on listening to the bickering match that was most likely to start.

 

***

A week later, Arthur found out that Owain had been right.

Merlin joined the LGBT club at the start of his second week, but to Arthur's surprise, the rumor mill miraculously ignored even that. It had already ignored his tight-fitting jeans, and the fine, nearly unnoticeable smudge of eyeliner framing his eyes, so it probably wasn't enough of a surprise to warrant extensive gossiping. And Merlin was still shrouded in the safe anonymity of being new.

Not much happened, at first. A few of the artsy guys who had taken to sitting with Merlin for lunch started sitting somewhere else, but mostly, things stayed the same. Merlin still smiled at him occasionally. Owain lobbed his spitballs with more force than before, and his glares intensified each time Merlin refused to rise to the challenge. And it wasn't until Arthur found himself tossing a casual greeting over his shoulder when he passed Merlin in the hallway that he realized that Merlin's eyes were blue.

All in all, nothing changed after his coming out, until Merlin showed up to volleyball practice one day.

His unruly mop of hair was quite a nice change from Sophia's theatrically sobbing form sprawled across the stands, but Arthur still felt something uncomfortable clench low in his stomach when he caught sight of Merlin from the open door of the locker room. He bent down to check the fit of his knee pads, and when he straightened up again, his teammates had noticed Merlin as well.

"Dude," Owain said, to no one in particular, but the belligerence in his tone was unmistakable. He had stopped in the middle of pulling on his shirt. "What's the fag doing here?"

Next to Arthur, Leon rolled his eyes and rose from the bench. He was taller than all of them, and one of the best blockers Arthur had ever seen, but the look he gave Owain was placating. "He might want to join the team," he replied, diplomatically. "Isn't he new?"

Arthur nodded, but Owain just shook his head. "Probably there to ogle our asses," he spat, shrugging on his shirt with a jerky, angry movement, and directed another dark look out at the field.

To be fair, Merlin didn't _look_ like he was planning to ogle anyone. He was pulling off an enormous pair of headphones, putting it on the seat beside him, and even from a distance, Arthur saw him gaze around the gym with interest. It had been raining all day, and the pitch outside was little more than a field of grassy puddles, and after a forlorn look at the net stretching soggily across the mud, their coach had declared that they'd just start the indoor season a little earlier than usual.

"He wouldn't lower himself to checking out _your_ ass anyway," Pellinore said from the back of the room, grinning easily when Owain turned to glare at him. "Come on, mate, chill. First practice after the summer break, we have to show the coach we haven't forgotten how to play."

Owain didn't reply, but his movements didn't seem quite as erratic anymore when he bent down to tighten his shoelaces, and Arthur breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

The warm-ups mostly got everyone in line again, and even Owain had to stop glancing Merlin's way every so often, with the way the coach was drilling them. He just made an idle remark about how he hoped that this wouldn't turn out like that time when Morgana had marched onto the field after practice, her beautiful head held high, and asked Leon on a date without any preamble whatsoever. Arthur smiled at the memory—of course _he'd_ seen the way Leon had been looking at his stepsister for months, but Morgana had never let on that she'd noticed as well.

Leon kindly asked Owain to shut up, however, and the conversation dwindled away into nothingness during the first game. It felt impossibly good to be in the court again, although they were just fooling around in two teams of three to get back into the swing of the game after the long break. The squeak of his shoes on the floor, the familiar sting to his wrists after each dig, the sweat running into his eyes—Arthur felt an elated grin break out across his face as he jogged through the backcourt for a serve. He had missed this.

They were all looking at him when he turned back around, Gareth and Gawain already milling towards the back of their field with their eyes glued to the ball in Arthur's hand. He grinned, wiping his sweaty fringe off of his forehead, and for some reason his eyes came to rest on Merlin, still sitting in the stands on the far side of the field. He was looking at Arthur too, his expression intrigued and somehow expectant, and Arthur took great care to avert his gaze again before he slowly began to slide his foot back.

The ball spun once when he threw it, lightly, but even after the summer break, the angle was perfect when the heel of his hand slammed into it. It shot across the gym in a blur of white, not even jostling the net, and Arthur saw Gareth lunge forward with a wild expression, diving to the floor with his fists already outstretched for a dig. Gawain practically jumped into the net, but it was too late—the ball had already touched down, bouncing off the floor twice as though to mock their efforts.

Arthur felt his grin widen as he jogged back into the field after their coach's whistle, accepting Owain's impressed look with an easy nod. Leon had been an unstoppable whirl of motion at the net, and Arthur gave him a clap on the shoulder and a few appreciative words when they rotated. Gawain and Pellinore had constantly been struggling to close their block on the other side, and they wore matching expressions of relief when Owain stepped up to take Leon's place.

Owain saw the look, of course, and hissed a playful threat at them when Arthur stepped towards the net as well. Leon caught the ball when a disgruntled-looking Gareth flung it at him, retreating for his own first serve of the day. Arthur kept his eyes on the others through the net, not looking back—and found his gaze drifting to Merlin again, who was still watching him, looking thoughtful and a little confused why Arthur had given up his position in the backcourt.

If Merlin didn't know the basic rules of volleyball, he couldn't be here because he wanted to join the team—and he still didn't seem like the kind of person who'd watch their practice just because he wanted to look his fill. Arthur refocused his gaze on the net in front of him, not listening to Pellinore's shout for Leon to get the hell on with it and stop prancing around like a pony, and Leon shouted back something about readjusting his stance.

Once again the ball shot across the field, but this time Gawain was faster. He passed it to Gareth with a triumphant expression, and Arthur made a mental note to compliment him on the neat dig later—Gawain was the newest addition to their team, he had only joined them half a year ago, and his confidence was still not up to par with his skill.

The ball spun high above their heads for a moment, giving Gareth plenty of time to get ready for one of his killer spikes. Arthur tensed, widening his stance and exchanging a quick, alarmed look with Owain. Then Gareth's fist connected with the ball, his face a sweaty grimace of intense concentration, and Arthur and Owain both jumped, hands already outstretched.

It skimmed Arthur's fingertips, briefly bending his middle finger backwards at a painful angle, but then it was gone just before Owain lost his balance and crashed into him. Arthur heard the muffled thump of Leon dropping to his knees, but then the ball slapped to the ground behind them and Owain groaned.

"Not bad," the coach said from the sidelines, appreciatively, and Arthur gave Owain a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Mercifully, Mr. Muirden seemed to be going easy on them because it was the first practice after the summer break—usually he'd have been shouting instructions already.

Arthur and Pellinore switched places after a while, and Pellinore gave him a feral grin when they passed each other at the net. His expression wasn't mocking at all, despite the teasing glint in his eyes, but Arthur still felt a slow tug at the bottom of his stomach, reminding him of the knot of tension that had settled there in the locker room.

"Seems like _Owain's_ not the one who should be worried about his ass," Pellinore whispered, with a short jerk of his head towards where Merlin was still sitting. Arthur stared at him, thoroughly taken aback, but Pellinore just clapped him on the shoulder and went to join Leon at the net.

He couldn't keep his eyes from straying to Merlin again after that, and well, he _had_ noticed that Merlin seemed to be looking at him whenever Arthur glanced his way. But it didn't have to _mean_ anything, or at least not _that_. Merlin was just watching them practice with a slightly puzzled, muted sort of excitement—he might not have known the rules of the game, but he was still perceptive enough to see that they were good.

Arthur caught himself almost grinning at Merlin, and schooling his mouth back into a tightly-set line distracted him enough that he forgot to glance away when their gazes met again. Merlin just looked at him, with the same kind of calm that he had seemed to wear like a cloak on his first day. He didn't look like he'd been fantasizing about Arthur's ass, or anyone else's, for that matter. He simply watched, a silent, unobtrusive presence despite all of Owain's thinly-veiled glares, and Arthur settled for giving him a curt nod before resolutely turning back to his teammates.

An hour later, they were all sweaty and exhausted, even Arthur, who had spent the majority of the summer break channeling his frustration about Sophia into excessive use of the little gym in his father's basement. But he relished in the burn and pull of his tired muscles when he wiped a stray drop of sweat out of his eye, and judging by the half-grins the others were wearing, they enjoyed the feeling of the game having them back as well.

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Merlin get up, gaze firmly fixed on him. Briefly, Arthur thought about going over to him, asking him why he'd come to watch practice—he was the captain, after all, and he knew he should. But Owain was glaring at Merlin again, although Merlin didn't seem to notice, and the coach was calling for Arthur to join him in his office—doubtlessly to discuss the slight decline in their performance and ask him why the hell Owain had been so distracted in the beginning.

He jogged after Mr. Muirden, trying to focus his mind on the lecture that awaited him. It proved to be far more difficult than he'd have preferred.

 

***

When Arthur came out of the empty locker room twenty minutes later, the rest of the team had left already, and Merlin was leaning against the far wall. The ridiculous headphones were pulled down around his neck, and his posture was relaxed enough, although his hair was sticking up once more, like he'd been at it with his hands again.

He pushed off the wall when he saw Arthur, taking a hesitant step forward. His eyes seemed eager, and very blue in the dimly-lit hallway, and Arthur might have thought him bold if he hadn't noticed the slightly nervous shuffle of his feet.

"Hi," Merlin said, with a tentative smile. He looked breathless. Arthur wasn't sure how it was possible to _look_ like you weren't getting enough air—he certainly wasn't panting or anything—but somehow it was. "I'm Merlin. Merlin Emrys."

Arthur looked down at the hand Merlin was holding out for a moment before gripping it. "Arthur Pendragon," he said, the words feeling oddly hacked-off and impolite in his mouth, even though he wasn't even trying to sound aloof.

Merlin nodded, his smile widening a little. The expression looked natural on his face, like he smiled a lot throughout an average day—which was true, as far as Arthur could tell. He'd seen Merlin hang out with other members of the LGBT club lately, with Morgana's best friend Gwen and some creepy sophomore kid called Mordred, and Merlin seemed happier now than he had during his first week.

Then Arthur wondered when his subconscious had stored that into his long-term memory, since he certainly didn't recall having spent any part of the past week actively _looking out_ for Merlin, or some such nonsense. He shifted his weight, unconsciously mirroring Merlin's nervous motion from before, suddenly aware of how he was still uncomfortably sweaty, only just beginning to cool down. Arthur didn't like to use the showers next to the locker room; he usually drove home to use his own right after practice.

"So," Arthur said, struggling for a casual tone, and locked the door behind himself, although he made no move to venture out into the yard. "You want to join my team?"

Merlin laughed, a clear, jingling sound. "God, no," he replied, eyes twinkling with amusement. Arthur noticed, with some distress, that Merlin's cheeks got dimples when he smiled widely enough. "I'm crap at anything that involves running after a ball."

"I'll bet," Arthur answered, before he could stop himself, and bit his tongue when Merlin rolled his eyes, but he didn't seem angry. Arthur wondered if Merlin knew that he wasn't venturing out of the hallway because Leon—or Owain—might be waiting for him in the yard. The thought made him feel sick, somehow, although he wasn't quite sure why.

"So," Merlin echoed, and stuffed his hands into his pockets. Up close, his coat looked even more threadbare than from afar, and certainly not waterproof. "Mr. Anhora told me to talk to you—I'm kind of lagging behind in algebra and he said you might be willing to help."

A rush of something undefinable pulled through Arthur's stomach, a mix of relief and something else—relief because Merlin hadn't come to practice to check out his ass after all. The other thing prickled a little and settled uncomfortably amidst the pleasant ache of tired muscles, and Arthur pushed it away before he could put a name to it.

"Sure," he replied, belatedly—he was quite good at maths, after all, although he barely got by in English—and tried for a smile as well. It must have worked, because Merlin didn't seem to notice how strange and unsteady the expression felt on Arthur's face. "I have volleyball practice on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but I'm sure we'll work something out."

Merlin pulled his timetable out of his bag, and they settled for meeting in the library on Friday afternoon. Arthur couldn't help noticing that they had most of their classes together, and that his first impression of Merlin had been right, if the numerous art classes he'd stuffed into his schedule were anything to go by.

He thought of his own timetable, full of various business and science classes, and couldn't help thinking that Merlin's first impression of him was probably correct as well. The thought made him smile, until he remembered that there was no reason for Merlin to have formed any impression of him at all.

"Great, thanks," Merlin said in a rush when he stuffed his timetable back into his bag; Arthur thought he heard the sound of ripping paper, but didn't say anything. "Really, _thank_ you—you have no idea how much of a relief that is. It was so depressing to have spent all summer studying to prepare for Avalon High and find that I'm still behind—"

Arthur nodded, making no move to interrupt Merlin's babbling. The fervent gratitude on his face had shocked him into silence a moment ago, along with the sooty sweep of his lashes across his pale cheeks, shadowy and hushed in the dim light.

No one was waiting for Arthur when they walked out into the yard. The rain had stopped some time ago, although the heavy, oppressive clouds hung low enough that Arthur suspected it might start again any moment. Merlin looked at him then, sidelong, a single glance that looked oddly secretive for the tiny smile nestled in the corners of his mouth.

Again, Arthur couldn't help thinking that Merlin knew that he'd stalled in the hallway to avoid being seen with him by any teammates who might have waited around, and despite the barest hint of teasing in Merlin's eyes, Arthur didn't feel like he was being made fun of.

It was that that worried him, made him bid Merlin a rather gruff goodbye and stride away towards the school's parking lot without waiting for a reply. Arthur needed to get home, after all—residual adrenalin was still zapping through his blood, tickling drops of sweat still sliding down his spine and making his shirt stick to his back.

His heart was pounding when he unlocked the car and slid into the driver's seat, although he wasn't quite sure why.

 

***

"How was practice?" his father asked him that evening, interrupting Arthur in the middle of making a sandwich, and it took Arthur a solid ten seconds to get over his shock at seeing Uther Pendragon emerge from his study before midnight.

"Fine," Arthur said after a beat, warily, and his father nodded, silently crossing the room to lean on the kitchen counter. He was still wearing his suit, but had loosened his tie, and Arthur thought that he looked as tired as he sometimes did after a long week, although it was only Tuesday.

He carefully didn't say anything, though, and picked a few leaves of salad out of the bowl next to him. Neither of them spoke as he cut up a tomato into neat slices, the _chop-chop-chop_ of the knife the only sound breaking the silence. The grandfather clock in the dining room was ticking, some heirloom or other from a long deceased ancestor, and Arthur carefully rolled his aching shoulders, trying to arch the tension out of his muscles again.

Uther watched as Arthur took a bit of leftover cold chicken from the fridge, and only spoke when Arthur had set the bowl down on the kitchen counter. "How is Sophia?"

Arthur swallowed, and did his best to hide his flinch. "We, uh," he mumbled, pretending to be thoroughly preoccupied with squeezing mayonnaise onto the toasted slices of bread. "We— broke up last summer."

"Oh," his father said, surprised and a little dismayed, and Arthur almost laughed at the thoroughly unfamiliar sound of Uther Pendragon being at a loss for words. The noise stuck in his throat, though, because it was just another proof of how little attention Uther paid to his son these days—if he had been home for the summer break, for instance, he would have known about the breakup.

He didn't look particularly distracted now, though. He was fixing Arthur with a silent, unmoving stare that Arthur saw all the time, only never for so long, and never accompanied by silence. That look normally made him feel like he was being examined for flaws, but Arthur suspected that the feeling shimmering in his father's eyes was _concern_ , and, well, he had no idea what to do with that. He wished, with a sudden, vicious desperation, that he'd called Lance for an impromptu evening of video games instead of going home, and turned back to his sandwich, trying to ignore the tight, panicky feeling in his chest.

"It was mutual," Arthur said, his mouth moving on its own accord. "We didn't really— it was nice in the beginning, but she just— we didn't understand each other anymore in the end."

His father raised his eyebrows, and Arthur silently cursed himself. He was rambling like he hadn't ever since that unfortunate incident with the neighbor's dog when he was ten. He bit the inside of his cheek to stop more words from tumbling out, and moved on to cursing Merlin in his stead—he'd given Arthur his weird babbling disease.

Arthur busied himself with finding just the perfect arrangement for the tomato slices on the mayonnaise, and banished the thought of Merlin from his mind. Uther was silent, but Arthur could practically feel him exude discomfort—his father seemed to be searching for something to say, something reassuring and manly like those claps to the shoulder that he was so fond of dealing out whenever he thought Arthur needed some sort of support. He didn't seem to find any words, though, and Arthur didn't speak either, and told himself that the faint sting of disappointment was purely his imagination.

The door opened suddenly, and Morgana swept in, fastening something silver and glittering to her left ear. Her hair was pinned up into a complicated pattern that allowed a few loose curls to pool on her bare shoulders—even Arthur's brief glance revealed that she looked stunningly beautiful. Uther's silent questioning gaze came to rest on her clinging black dress, and Arthur briefly marveled at the apparently benevolent mood he was in, seeing as he hadn't asked her to go change yet.

"I'm going out," she declared, after passing a short look between them and apparently deciding to take it upon herself to defuse the silence. "With Leon."

"Again?"

"Yes, Uther, _again_ ," Morgana said, with surprising patience. "He's my boyfriend, if you hadn't noticed."

Uther grumbled something under his breath about age differences that Arthur couldn't quite make out, but he dug around in his pocket for a moment before tossing something silver and black that Morgana caught effortlessly in mid-air.

"Drive safely," he said, a little gruffly, and pushed himself off of the kitchen counter. "And don't stay out too late, you've got a lecture tomorrow morning."

"I— the _Cadillac?_ " Morgana said, mostly to herself, staring in disbelief at the car keys in her hand. Arthur stared too, and their gazes met for a brief moment, silently sharing the question of what Morgana had done to earn this.

Then her face broke out into a grin, the sort of smile that made her look achingly young and that she only rarely directed at anyone, and she twirled the car keys around her finger. "Thank you!" she called after Uther's retreating form, unfeigned gratitude in her voice, and Uther gave her a nod, the briefest of smiles twisting his mouth before the door closed behind him.

Arthur turned back to his sandwich, heaping an inordinate amount of salad onto the tomato slices. He could feel Morgana's gaze on him, but didn't turn to look at her, concentrating instead on the clawed, burning something that seemed to have come to life in his stomach just a second ago. Next time, he would just call Lance.

 

***

Merlin lets out a sharp gasp of pain when his back hits the wall, but right there and then, Arthur is beyond caring that his shove must have aggravated one of Merlin's other bruises. His heart is pounding hard enough to make him nauseous, his vision swimming and blurring in and out of focus like it only ever does when he's drunk.

There's something shaking in his chest, something that Merlin must have kicked loose and that's now stumbling around like a wayward sailor on a swaying deck, not knowing what to do with the freedom it's been given. Arthur staggers backwards until he can brace himself against the door with a shaking hand, feeling shapeless and unsteady and very much like he's going just a bit mad.

"What the— what the _hell_ ," he pants, all but spitting out the words, and for a moment he considers spitting for real. But there's a tiny part of his mind that protests vigorously as soon as the fleeting notion crosses his mind, the same part that recoiled in shock when Merlin cringed away from the wall with a pained grimace, and that now cries out at the thought of rinsing the taste of something electric and frightening from his mouth.

Arthur sucks in a deep breath through his nose, and the nausea subsides a little, though he feels no less dangerous. "Get out," he says, with what feels like the last bit of authoritative strength he has left. "If you know what's good for you, get the _fuck_ out of this room."

Merlin just looks at him, though, with those infuriatingly calm blue eyes that show no trace of the dull ache that must still be pulsing through his shoulder. He takes a step closer, heedless of the tension humming through Arthur's frame and the white-knuckled, trembling clench of his fists, and cocks his head to the side like a curious bird. And then he says, "No."

 

***

 _(29 days earlier)_

He met up with Merlin in the library on Friday afternoon, and belatedly realized that he'd be exposed to Morgana's glances for the entire duration of their studying session, since Morgana had kept her job at the school's library even after graduation. Arthur just grunted a moody reply to Merlin's cheerful greeting, and grabbed Merlin's arm, tugging him towards a desk in the back of the room where he could at least pretend that Morgana wasn't watching them with an expression of inexplicable glee.

Merlin seemed puzzled but didn't protest, and for that, Arthur was grateful.

After seeing Merlin's algebra notes for the first time, Arthur explained, exasperatedly, that Merlin would probably have made far better progress if he hadn't wasted his time doodling in the margins.

For some reason, Merlin flushed slightly at that, and stretched out his arm so his elbow conveniently covered the lower half of the page, which was filled with doodles as well. Arthur saw what might have been the upper half of a heart peeking out from underneath Merlin's sleeve, and just rolled his eyes, not caring whoever it was Merlin had a crush on _already_ (because honestly, it was only their second week of classes).

He didn't say anything, although Merlin's unwavering gaze unsettled him a bit. It almost seemed like Merlin _wanted_ him to ask, or to casually shove his arm out of the way so he could read whatever name or initials the little heart held. His eyes were such a brilliant blue that Arthur had a hard time looking down at Merlin's textbook, and he breathed a quiet sigh of relief when Merlin finally lowered his gaze as well.

But a small grin was lurking in the corners of his mouth, and this time Arthur _did_ feel like he was being mocked, just a little. What startled him, though, was that he didn't really mind.

They established a routine after that first Friday afternoon, and Arthur discovered that Merlin did indeed smile a lot, and that he had a quirky sense of humor that was easy to fall into step with. He also found out that Merlin seemed to be nervous a lot more than Arthur had previously thought, and that he was just rather good at hiding it. But there was always something that gave him away—a knee bouncing silently under the table when Arthur leaned closer to snatch the pen from Merlin's hand before he could commit the same mathematical crime for the third time. The way his hands never fidgeted but his feet often shuffled, scuffing his worn boots against the linoleum floor as though to compensate for the forced stillness of his slender artist's fingers.

And, most of all, the quickly-hidden blush that hastened to his face whenever Arthur laughed at something he'd said, or when Arthur leaned back to stretch the kinks out of his shoulders after having hunched over the desk for the better part of an hour.

Their Fridays lined up like neat little pearls on a carefully-crafted necklace, and sometimes when he was driving home, Arthur felt like he wasn't all that good at mathematics after all. It seemed like an equation that was placed right in front of him, factors being added and subtracted without his doing, and he could only stare as the sum seemed to drift further and further away.

Owain still called Merlin a fag, and various other names that grew louder each time. Arthur found himself looking over to where Merlin was sitting with Gwen and Mordred during lunch, and hoping that Owain would just get over it, whatever _it_ was. He doubted Owain would, though, because Merlin still showed up for practice sometimes—just sitting quietly and unobtrusively, and _certainly_ never ogling, but his presence was usually enough to set his teammate off.

And Mordred kept _grinning_ at Owain whenever they passed each other in the hallway, an infuriating, cold twist of his mouth that never failed to provoke him into asking, loudly, whether the filthy faggot saw something he liked. Pellinore usually succeeded in pulling Owain away before Mordred could reply with something that'd most likely incense him even more, but it still grated on Arthur's nerves, and he resolved to have a serious talk with Owain about live and let live some time soon.

On a rainy Thursday morning, Arthur watched Merlin pull a sheet of paper from his locker—he didn't know who had put it there, but he was fairly sure it hadn't been Owain, since Owain couldn't draw to save his life. But Merlin just rolled his eyes at the crude picture of a dark-haired someone giving head to another stick figure, loudly criticizing the poor craftsmanship. He readily joined in when Mordred laughed, leaning casually against the locker next to Merlin's, and tossed the crumpled sheet of paper into the next dustbin.

If Merlin seemed to walk a little slower than usual for the rest of the day, or if he hunched his shoulders almost as though he wanted to disappear between them, Arthur was sure he was just imagining it.

One time, Arthur even met Merlin's mother—apparently she worked not far from the school grounds, and picked Merlin up whenever his last classes coincided with the end of her shift. Against his will, Arthur felt his eyebrow climbing towards his hairline as the banged-up green car pulled into the school's parking lot. It shot back down as soon as Hunith Emrys stepped out, though, with a hug for her son (who squirmed out of her grasp, mumbling embarrassed complaints) and an appraising glance towards Arthur.

"Call me Hunith, dear," was the first thing Merlin's mother said to him when Arthur introduced himself, awkwardly, and she shook his hand in a firm grip. Her hair was dark, graying just a little around the temples, and the laugh lines surrounding her face seemed to tell a story of days well spent in happiness, rather than of age. She reminded Arthur a little of one of his elementary school teachers, and he found himself relaxing.

Merlin explained that Arthur was helping him out with his algebra homework, and Hunith gave Arthur a smile he didn't think he'd ever quite seen. It made him feel like he had done something extraordinary just by _existing_ , just by helping her son. It stirred something hidden in his chest, catching on a long-forgotten edge that bled an odd, jarring fissure of pain into his stomach.

He excused himself hastily, muttering something about a late afternoon class, and stumbled and nearly fell over his own feet in his haste to get away.

 

***

"I," Arthur shouts, his voice bouncing off the walls of the locker room, "am not," and he throws his other shoe at Merlin, not at all surprised when the other boy easily ducks out of the way, " _gay!_ "

The purplish bruise on Merlin's cheek stands out even more in the dim light. Arthur can't stop feeling like he might throw up every time he looks at it, and the churning in his stomach makes him gaze wildly across the room in search of something heavier to throw.

"Good for you," Merlin says, his voice surprisingly even, although his breathing is not. "Then why did you kiss me back?"

 

***

 _(15 days earlier)_

"Hi," Merlin said, startling Arthur out of the silent glare he'd been bestowing onto the paper in front of him for the past twenty minutes. "Can I sit here?"

"No," Arthur said firmly, and of course Merlin sat down, flopping his gangly limbs into the chair next to his and sliding the strap of his bag off of his shoulder. He sighed in relief when the bag hit the floor with a thump, and Arthur briefly contemplated making some unkind remark about how Merlin was too scrawny to carry around half of the library with him.

He remained silent, though, and went back to staring at the red F that had already burned an afterimage into his eyes. There was a clatter as Merlin put his headphones on the table, and a rustle of cloth when he rummaged around in his bag for whatever homework he had come here to finish. Arthur wasn't looking at him, but he could _feel_ the moment Merlin saw the F and recognized Mr. Kilgharrah's handwriting.

Merlin stilled, and leaned over, scattering pens everywhere when his elbow bumped into Arthur's pencil case. Arthur leaned back when he felt the faint stir of Merlin's breath on his cheek, and huffed, trying to tug the neutral, aloof expression onto his face that he had also presented his teacher with earlier. It didn't work, though, and he let Merlin draw the sheets of paper out from under his forearm.

It wasn't like the fail grade was unusual, after all. Morgana had opened her mouth when Arthur had entered the library earlier, but the alarm had morphed into understanding as she'd recognized his English teacher's handwriting on the sheet of paper clutched in Arthur's hand. Literature had never been his strong suit—he was good at maths and science and business respectively, and even Uther had realized, after years of Arthur just barely getting by in English, that his bad grades weren't for a lack of trying.

 _'Shows promise'_ , it said under the essays he turned in, _'good potential'_ , as if Arthur were an undercooked roast that needed to be put back in the oven for a few more minutes. He appreciated Mr. Kilgharrah's attempts at softening the blow, but sometimes he wished his teacher would be a little more honest, just tell him exactly where he inevitably went wrong.

Merlin had turned back to the first page and was now reading the essay, not even twitching when Arthur made a protesting noise and tugged on the sheets of paper without any real intent. And Arthur's gaze caught on Merlin, despite the restless, frustrated itch under his skin—he noticed, not for the first time, the way Merlin drew his lower lip between his teeth in concentration, and the little focused line etched between his eyebrows.

He slowly let go of the paper and Merlin smiled distractedly, not even looking up at him. Arthur swallowed, and found himself staring at the shadowy space under Merlin's left cheekbone for some reason, where the skin was still slightly flushed from exposure to the cutting autumn wind. His mouth was very dry, his throat tight all of a sudden, and Arthur swallowed again, convulsively, feeling his stomach do a slow backflip in reaction, although to what, he didn't quite know.

The door banged open, shattering the quietude, and Morgana grumbled something about proper decorum in a library from the front of the room. Merlin raised his head in confusion, as though he'd been so deeply immersed in Arthur's essay that he'd forgotten where they were. Arthur blinked and shook himself out of his thoughts, self-consciously, clearing his throat to chase away the constriction lodged there.

"Arthur! There you are!" a familiar loud voice said, and Arthur looked up just in time to see Morgana glare at Owain, who came swaggering his way. Apparently Merlin had heard him too, because he looked up from Arthur's essay and turned around, giving Owain a curious look.

Out of nowhere, Owain froze. His grin froze, too. Arthur watched helplessly as his teammate's eyes drifted from him to Merlin and back again—Merlin, who was sitting up a little straighter and returned Owain's gaze with an unwavering stare.

There was a long silence, and then Owain smiled, although Arthur couldn't shake the impression of something nasty settling in the corner of his mouth. "I'll leave you to it, then," he said, his voice inscrutable, and started to turn back to the way he'd come. "Just in case you've forgotten, practice starts in ten minutes. _Captain._ "

Arthur opened his mouth, but Owain was already leaving, bounding up the steps to the door and dodging a girl carrying books. He shoved the door open with far more force than necessary, and it banged into the wall outside, causing the scattered students around them to look up as one. Morgana glared after him, beautiful in the sunlight even with the crease between her eyebrows, and although Arthur instinctively braced himself, she didn't turn her angry gaze to him.

Merlin's eyes had gone dark, his jaw a little too tight. Arthur stared at the tightness around his eyes, the firm set of his mouth, and it made him hate a little, although if the feeling was for Owain or for Merlin or even for himself, he didn't know.

But Merlin didn't say anything, and neither did Arthur, and Arthur quickly gathered his pens and stuffed them back into his bag, inexplicably angry at the slow flush he felt spreading across his cheeks, a scratchy, prickling heat that was hard to ignore and even harder to tamper down.

He got up, and then just stood there for a few seconds, staring down at Merlin with his mind utterly devoid of any words at all. Near the front of the room, Morgana unfolded a newspaper with great fuss, the pages rustling loudly in the quietude as though she was pointedly not listening at all. Which would have been fine, since Arthur had no idea what to say anyway, but deep down, he still appreciated her effort.

Merlin just looked back at him, his eyes calm and oddly unhurried. Arthur opened his mouth, then closed it, and swallowed once more, and finally he just made a vague, clumsy gesture that could have been a wave. He wanted it to say, _'See you later'_ , and, unrelatedly, _'Owain is an idiot'_ , and somehow he thought that the tiny smile on Merlin's face meant that he understood.

Only when the library door swung shut did it occur to Arthur that Merlin had kept his essay.

 

***

Fifteen minutes later, Arthur was still at a loss for words, but for entirely different reasons.

"I am not gay," he said at last, slowly, enunciating each word like his entire team was suddenly hard of hearing.

Pellinore shrugged, and scowled down at the ground as though begging it to swallow him up. The rubber of Gareth's shoes squeaked on the floor as he busied himself with stretching his left thigh, as he had been doing for the past minute, and overall, he did quite a good job of pretending not to listen at all. Gawain was still staring at Owain with an expression of utter disbelief, his mouth hanging half open, but nevertheless, Arthur saw the doubtful flicker in his dark eyes when he looked from Owain to him and back again.

Leon was standing a little off to the side, though, his hands balled into fists, and from the way he was glaring at all of them, Arthur suspected that his arrival in the locker room had interrupted a blazing row.

"I don't know, mate," Owain replied, his voice just as even and calm. He had his hands folded across his chest, too tightly to look casual, as though for protection. "Just— y'know, to be sure, yeah?", and he jerked his head in the direction of the showers again.

Arthur was their captain. He knew that he was supposed to yell at all of them and refuse to do this utterly ridiculous _thing_ asked of him. He was the one they had all looked up to ever since he'd joined the team, before he'd even become their leader—for his skill, Arthur knew, and for the way he valued each of them, knew their strengths and weaknesses by heart.

But right now, all he wanted to do was grab his bag from where he'd dropped it to the floor in utter surprise, turn back the way he'd come and _run_. Owain's face had hardened into a defensive mask, a look Arthur didn't recognize—he was sorely tempted to shatter it with a fist, and he might have done just that if he hadn't been captain, _their_ captain, the one who had led them to winning nearly every game during the last season. He couldn't be seen beating his teammate to a bloody pulp just because he felt like it, just because the hot rush of humiliated anger was already tightening his hands into fists.

In the end, Arthur didn't punch Owain, and he didn't run either. He bent down to retrieve his bag with a wordless snarl, and no one tried to stop him when he walked towards the showers, and it took all of Arthur's strength to level a glare at all of them, to let them know just how out of line this whole thing was. No one stopped him, although he could see a flickering shadow of uncertainty in Owain's eyes when their gazes met. No one spoke, and the echo of his shoes on the tiles of the shower room was the only sound breaking the silence.

Just for that, he slammed the door behind himself as hard as he could.

He stood there for a while, breathing hard, staring sightlessly at the far wall. It was ridiculous. It was _beyond_ outrageous—Arthur probably would have laughed out loud at the sheer absurdity of this situation, if it hadn't been for the solid brick that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his throat. A pulse of reckless, unused energy was traveling through his muscles, making his blood boil and his hands clench into fists on their own accord.

Granted, Owain _had_ shut his mouth rather quickly when Arthur had entered the room, but Arthur had heard the raised voices from the hallway, and had been able to make out his own name amidst the shouting when he'd pressed the door handle. And so he had asked, straight-forwardly, why they weren't warming up yet, and why they were all staring at him like he'd grown a second head.

Owain had looked intimidated for a moment, but spoke up again almost immediately—and the answer had been quite simple, although it had sent Arthur's heart into a furious, frenzied sprint that he refused to let show on his face. Owain had seen him with Merlin in the library, "looking cozy," as he put it (at that, Leon had looked ready to throw something, but a warning glance from Arthur had quieted him again). And now he was concerned exactly which team Arthur played for after all, and then he had asked him, in everyone's best interest, to get changed in the shower room.

Just after Arthur had stubbed his toe by kicking viciously at the nearest sink, the door behind him opened and closed again.

Arthur whirled around, and he had to put a conscious effort into opening his mouth. "Get—," _out_ , he'd wanted to say, but the stubborn, defiant set of Leon's jaw stole the last word from his mouth.

"No," Leon said, quite simply, and bent down to pull his shorts out of his bag.

Arthur made a sound he hadn't known he _could_ make, something between a wordless shout and a snarl, and went back to gritting his teeth until it felt like his molars would crack under the pressure.

He twisted out of his trousers in sullen silence, half daring himself to turn around and ask Leon why he wasn't as _scared_ as the other little cowards next door, but decided against it. None of this was _Leon's_ fault, Arthur sternly reminded himself as he pulled on his shorts and tried to slow his breathing.

Eventually, Leon said, "Owain's a wanker," very casually, as if he was telling Arthur that the earth was round. Arthur snorted, but although he didn't look up from where he was tying his shoelaces, the steel bands around his chest seemed to loosen just a little.

They remained silent while Leon put on his shirt with a rustle of clothes. Arthur stood, stretching slowly and wishing he weren't so tense—warm-up would be hell like this, with his shoulders knotted as tightly as if the muscles had tried to ball into fists too. A strange, unfamiliar ache was lodged deep beneath his ribs, pulling at his lungs, but Arthur didn't allow himself to dwell on it for too long. If he did, he might end up breaking down the door and beating Owain over the head with it for disrupting his team, and no matter how angry and humiliated he felt, Arthur didn't want to _kill_ him.

"You've always had them," Leon said from behind him, carefully. His voice was _gentle_ , of all things, and Arthur growled low in his throat, briefly giving himself over to a fantasy of how good it would feel to break his cheekbone for that, or his nose. Morgana would never forgive him, though, and he _knew_ it would be unfair, since Leon was the only one who had come after him at all.

"Their trust, their admiration," Leon went on after a moment, oblivious to how close Arthur had come to turning around and shoving him into the wall. "You've always had it. You didn't even really need to ask for it. They just threw it at you when you joined the team, because we knew instinctively that you'd make an excellent captain."

Arthur said nothing. He listened to the scuffle of shoes on the other side of the door, the sounds of the rest of his teammates leaving the locker room in what seemed to be tense silence. _Good_ , he thought, darkly, and hated himself for it just a second later.

"You still have mine," Leon stated when Arthur put his hand on the door handle. He looked a little awkward when Arthur turned around to glance at him, but he held his head high under Arthur's silent stare, not taking anything back. "If that helps."

"It doesn't," Arthur said crossly, but then the brick was back in his throat and dust seemed to sting his eyes, and he had to blink and swallow hard to dispel the sensation. Leon smiled at him, hesitantly, and although Arthur couldn't quite smile back, he felt like he might be capable of returning the gesture some time within the next hour.

Leon bumped Arthur's shoulder with his own when he walked past him. Together they headed out for what would most likely be the most awkward volleyball practice of Arthur's life.

 

***

The essay was returned the next morning, folded neatly and pushed into his locker so that it fell out when Arthur wrenched it open, and his shoulder protested the movement with a twinge of pain. He'd pulled a muscle there yesterday when he'd flung himself to the ground to dig an unfairly low pass from Owain, but he'd shrugged off Mr. Muirden's concern and continued playing, only allowing himself a pained grimace when Owain had turned back to the net.

Arthur left the pages folded as they were, unwilling to put himself through the sight of the F again. But there was an additional scrap of paper that Arthur was sure had not been there before, stuck to his essay with a piece of tape. He pulled it off, frowning—the folds had worn creases into the paper, as though whoever had stuck it there had folded and unfolded it quite a number of times.

He recognized Merlin's handwriting immediately, from numerous times of watching him fumble through his algebra homework with ever-increasing confidence and only a little residual hesitance. Here, it was a hasty scrawl, though, like he had needed to write the message quickly, lest some sort of uncertainty got the better of him and made him toss the paper into the nearest dustbin.

 _'Your problem is that you don't finish your thoughts. The beginning is average, but the rest doesn't fulfill its promise. You start and then stop, start and stop, throughout the entire essay like your mind couldn't find a path to follow until the end.  
 ~~Promises are to be~~  
Life doesn't work that way either.  
—M.'_

If it hadn't been for the memory of yesterday's practice still fresh and cutting in Arthur's mind, he might have smiled at Merlin's words, or at least mulled over the advice for a moment. As it was, he crumpled the paper in his fist with a wordless snarl, startling a group of students into giving him a wary berth as they walked past.

Arthur thought about scaring them even more by slamming his fist into his locker, but decided against it after a moment—his shoulder was enough of a bother already, he didn't need his hand acting up as well. He looked around wildly instead, but of course there was no trashcan in sight, and with another snarl, he stuffed the scrap of paper into his pocket, abruptly deciding to drown it with his next load of laundry.

The time until lunch break passed in a pain-filled haze, his shoulder twinging each time Arthur crooked his arm to write. Lance asked him what was wrong, if he needed to go home, but Arthur deflected his concern with a silent scowl. He knew that his best friend was just worried about him, and that he simply wanted to help, but every single concerned glance from Lance's general direction made Arthur cringe. It felt like _everyone_ was looking at him, imagined gazes burning at the back of his neck like acid on his skin. He tried not to move his arm too much, and gritted his teeth against the gnarled knot of furious humiliation that kept accumulating in his throat, and stormed out of the room as soon as the bell rang, signaling the lunch break.

"Silence," Morgana said warningly when she caught sight of Arthur's expression, but even her authoritative tone couldn't hide the concern in her eyes. "This is a library, not a boxing ring."

Arthur stared at her for a long, silent moment, feeling like he was waking up properly for the first time after yesterday's disaster. Meeting her gaze was like being doused in cold water, although it did nothing to soothe the frustration that was still humming through him like ants crawling under his skin. Somehow, that look reminded him that it was just high school—there were bigger things than this last year he had to spend here, worse things than being shunned by his volleyball team and spraining his shoulder.

And there were certainly things even more terrifying than the primal, frantic rush that pulled through Arthur's gut when he saw Merlin sitting near the back of the room.

The anger that cut through him at the sight felt rotten somehow, like a rusty knife twisting in his gut in search of something ripe and blood-filled to plunge into. He crossed the room with big strides, and by the time he flung himself down into the chair opposite of Merlin's, the heated throb in Arthur's stomach had subsided. Merlin was giving him a slightly puzzled look, the welcoming smile slowly sliding off of his face, but Arthur pulled pen and paper from his bag when he heard Morgana's warning cough behind them.

Merlin watched in confused silence as Arthur wrenched the cap off of his pen with enough force to slightly dent the plastic. The weird haze was back at the corners of his vision, but Arthur ignored it right along with the protesting sting in his abused shoulder. _'If I had wanted your help'_ , he wrote, the scrape of his pen hard enough to indent the paper, _'I would have asked for it.'_

He shoved the sheet at Merlin, nearly crumpling it against his elbow when Merlin didn't move his arm fast enough. Merlin had the gall to give him a confused look, but Arthur just glared at him, vaguely feeling like his teeth might disintegrate to dust if he gritted them any harder.

Merlin drew the paper closer to himself, bending over to read the words, and his expression turned from confused to surprised and finally to _patient_. Arthur was suddenly struck with the overwhelming desire to wipe that look off of his face—his fingers itched, but not with the urge to clench into fists. It wasn't like punching Merlin would make anything right again; if anything, it would just make everything worse, and the whole mess wasn't really Merlin's fault after all.

But Arthur couldn't figure out _whose_ fault it was, and Merlin was already writing, his scrawl looking spindly and artistic under Arthur's angry note.

 _'You don't seem the type to ask for help.'_

Merlin's eyes were calm, inquisitive even, and Arthur thought, suddenly, that he didn't look seventeen. He seemed older somehow, oddly wise in his own quirky kind of way—and something about his patient silence struck Arthur as so profoundly _unfair_ that his breath stuck in his chest for a moment. It wasn't _right_ , that Arthur should feel so unsettled, stumbling around in the dark like an uprooted tree, while Merlin, awkward, bumbling, infuriating _Merlin_ seemed so confident, sure of himself and his footing, and as utterly unselfconscious as he wasn't about so many other things.

 _'Stop looking so smug'_ , Arthur wrote, with vicious strokes, underlined the words, and got up, shoving back his chair so hard that it clattered to the floor. At the front desk, Morgana cleared her throat again, but she needn't have bothered—Arthur wasn't about to use Merlin as a substitute punching bag just because Owain wasn't around. His entire arm hurt, a white-hot line of pain along his bones, and his heart was making a valiant effort to claw its way out of his chest, and for just a moment, Arthur almost wished it would.

"Arthur," Merlin said from behind him, questioning and more than a little worried. That single hesitant call of his name nearly undid him, but Arthur found, with a vague sort of surprise, that he couldn't let out the shaky breath he'd just taken, not even to form words, and so he ran.

Well, he didn't quite _run_ , but he didn't stop until he'd found a faraway dusty corner with books on geography that looked like no one had taken them out of their shelves in ages. The single light bulb was flickering erratically, and an absent, unconcerned part of Arthur's brain made a mental note to inform Morgana about it on his way out later.

He stayed there for a while, breathing hard, pressing his forehead to the cool stone wall until he felt a little less like his head would explode any second. Out in the hallway, the bell signaled the end of the lunch break, but Arthur didn't move, just listened to the clatter of a hundred footsteps passing by on the other side of the wall, and concentrated on his breathing. His pulse seemed too loud in his ears, each disquieted thrash of his heart sending a spasm of pain through his shoulder, but he focused on the rise and fall of his chest, the rush of air through his lungs, and after a while he didn't feel quite as nauseous and unsteady anymore.

Merlin was gone when Arthur returned to the table, but the sheet of paper was still there, as well as Arthur's bag. Morgana was pointedly hiding behind another newspaper when he looked at the front desk, but Arthur got the vague feeling that she might have cut tiny holes into the front page to watch him from, and so he turned his back to her before he picked up the sheet.

 _'I'm not smug, Arthur'_ , Merlin had written. The ink was still shimmering a little, like he'd thought about the words for a long time before finally writing them down. _'I didn't win anything. We were not even fighting.'_

 

***

Arthur doesn't quite know when his hands started to shake, but even now that he's noticed it, he can't seem to get them to stop.

He's digging his fingers into his hair hard enough for spikes of pain to shoot through his temples, but it doesn't help. He still feels the bone-deep tremor winding through his palms, burrowing in between muscles and veins. Blood is leaking sluggishly from where the skin on his knuckles split open with the force of his punch, but that, at least, is a pain Arthur doesn't feel again just yet. Owain is being taken to the hospital right now with what's probably a broken jaw, after all, and the thought is oddly comforting, even though the smell of his own blood makes Arthur's stomach roil.

They both flinched when Arthur's mobile started to ring earlier, but Arthur ignored it. It rang for an irritatingly long time, like whoever was calling him didn't want to give up even after the tenth ring. Merlin's gaze flickered from Arthur's eyes to his pocket and back, as though silently imploring him to at least _move_ to indicate that he hadn't just fainted sitting up. Arthur briefly thought about telling him how stupid that would have been, but in the end he couldn't quite gather enough energy to open his mouth.

Across the room, Merlin is leaning against the wall, and somehow, it's so profoundly odd that his body chooses _this_ situation to betray his nervousness. He's biting his lip and fidgeting absently with the cuffs of his sleeves, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He looks like he's debating whether he should come closer, or maybe even sit down on the other bench opposite of Arthur, and lean down so he could catch his eye. Arthur hopes he won't.

In his pocket, his phone starts to ring and vibrate again, the melody annoyingly cheerful; for just a moment, Arthur contemplates taking it out just to fling it against the wall and stop the sound. Merlin makes a short, abortive movement, a hesitant jerk of his arm that takes him a step forward. His eyes are wide, and very, very blue, and Arthur thinks bitterly that if he can't take a hint and stay the fuck away from him even with that bruise marring his cheek, he only has himself to blame.

 

***

 _(8 days earlier)_

It was Tuesday when Arthur noticed the bruises for the first time.

He blinked drops of water from his eyes and impatiently brushed back his dripping bangs, all the while not taking his gaze off of the shadow marring the tanned skin of his left forearm. The beat of music was still thumping too loudly, muffled as it was by the wall between the bathroom and Morgana's room. Arthur had been listening to somebody singing weird nonsense about having the same dream every night as he'd rinsed the shampoo from his hair and finally turned off the shower. Practice had been exhausting, and he'd been content to just let his mind drift while the hot water washed the sweat of exertion from his body.

Lance had dropped by unannounced over the weekend, with DVDs and a sixpack, and subtly tried to get Arthur to talk over beer and _Welcome to the Jungle_. Rationally, Arthur knew that his best friend was worried about him, that he himself had been acting rather odd during the past weeks, and that Lance just wanted to _help_. But he'd also been very aware of the fact that he was just no good at the whole 'sharing his feelings' thing, especially when he hadn't yet gotten over the realization that there even _was_ something to be shared—a painful knot in his stomach whenever he thought of his team, mingling with the unsettling, irritating pull that plucked at him every time his mind wandered to Merlin.

And so Arthur had just hummed noncommittally whenever Lance tried to engage him in a conversation that went beyond commenting on the movie. Even if he had wanted to talk, he couldn't have put the jumbled mess of thoughts into words anyway, not with the way he felt like something in his head was trying to crack open whenever he tried to catch their trailing ends.

Now, though, Arthur just stared at his wrists for a good long while, feeling the dampness on his body grow cool, and thought about calling his best friend. _"Lance,"_ he imagined whispering into his phone, very quietly, lest Uther would hear, _"I am losing my fucking mind,"_ and then his mouth would dry up, along with any other pathetic words that might have been hovering on his tongue.

He recognized those bruises. His arms weren't black and blue, they didn't even hurt, but the shadowy patches stretching down his forearm from his wrists were unmistakable. They were the sort of bruises one got from playing volleyball—through digging, or, more specifically, through sloppy digging.

The last time Arthur had seen his wrists look like that had been in his freshman year, when he'd first joined the volleyball team and his technique had still needed a bit of work. The yellow-greenish shadows had faded during the first few weeks, though, as he figured out the right way of stretching his arms just so and avoid the sting of pain that had accompanied each dig at first. After years of training, he barely felt the brief flash of discomfort anymore whenever the ball slapped against his arms.

But now the bruises were back as though they'd never been gone. Which meant that his technique had relapsed into shoddiness some time during the awkward practices of last week, and Arthur even had an inkling who might be responsible for that. For a long, blissful moment, Arthur allowed his imagination to run away with him, and envisioned how good it would feel to ambush Owain just before class tomorrow and take out all his pent-up frustration on his teammate for making Arthur _lose his edge_.

Next door, Morgana's stereo blared on about perfect matches, the music only interrupted by the slam of the front door that meant that Uther had just come home. Swallowing the black, hopeless anger that swelled in his throat made Arthur feel nauseous, but he did it anyway, and even refrained from throwing a random object across the room just to see something shatter.

Arthur retreated to his room after toweling himself off, changed into his pajamas, and pulled the sleeves over his hands so he wouldn't accidentally catch a glimpse of the bruises again. He briefly contemplated getting started on his Biology homework, but discarded the thought, and somehow ended up sitting on the edge of his bed, staring sightlessly at a mindless sitcom flickering across the TV screen.

He didn't notice his father's presence until he cleared his throat, an unusually tentative sound for Uther Pendragon, who normally just swept in and demanded the entire room's attention, whether its occupants liked it or not. He was still wearing his shoes, a few half-melted snowflakes dusting the collar of his suit; Arthur concluded, foggily, that he might need to get up a bit earlier tomorrow morning to have enough time for driving to school through snowed-in streets.

Uther didn't say anything, and for some reason, Arthur got the feeling that his father had been standing there for a while, just watching him sitting motionless on the bed. The thought made him uncomfortable, and he pulled at his sleeves again just to make sure they covered his wrists, waiting for Uther to break the silence first.

At last, his father sighed, and let his gaze wander to the TV, one hand coming up to absently loosen his tie. "If this is about the essay," he started, sounding just as awkward as Arthur felt—it almost made him smile for a moment, because he knew how much it took for his father's voice to sound anything other than decisive.

"It's not," Arthur replied, for lack of anything else to say, because it wasn't about the most recent fail grade, not really. He even had an inkling that it wasn't about the bruises either, and more about the ugly sneer on Owain's face when he'd seen him and Merlin in the library, and the unshakeable certainty that had lurked in Merlin's eyes even then. All things considered, Arthur didn't even really know what _'it'_ was.

He had no idea how to say, _'Owain's stupid accusations are destroying our team spirit'_ , or, unrelatedly, _'I miss studying with Merlin'_ , because something had kept Arthur from the library during the entire past week, an invisible force that he refused, _refused_ to believe was anything like fear. The words seemed to clog his airways with a tangled knot of frustration, though, and so Arthur didn't speak again.

Uther sighed again when it became clear that Arthur wouldn't talk to him, and let his gaze travel across the room again. He looked old, suddenly, older than Arthur could ever remember seeing him—his hair looked grayer than usual in the dim light from the hallway. The sight made Arthur feel guilty for some reason, and he quickly averted his gaze back to the TV.

"Take my car to school tomorrow," Uther said abruptly, his posture straightening with the words—only then did Arthur realize how utterly unfamiliar his father had looked in his previous indecision. Arthur gave him a surprised glance, briefly wondering at the leap his father's thoughts had taken from grades to cars. He made the mistake of catching Uther's eye, though, and his father cleared his throat, looking away as he added, "It is better equipped for dealing with snow than yours."

For a moment, Arthur considered informing him that although the days grew colder and colder, there was no sign of snow just yet, not even in the weather forecasts, if he remembered correctly. But then he just shifted his weight on the bed, uncomfortably, mumbling a quick thank you, and Uther gave him a somewhat stiff nod and retreated back into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind him.

The look on his father's face had reminded Arthur of one he often saw in the volleyball court, from opposing teams who were not quite sure whether they could take them on. It made something curl unsettlingly in his stomach now, though, because this wasn't a fight, not even a _challenge_ —okay, his father had obviously caught on to the fact that something was wrong, but he'd backed down surprisingly easily. Which was rather atypical, come to think of it, and Arthur couldn't help but feel like his father's offer of taking his car tomorrow had been little more than a clumsy attempt at appeasement.

He willed the thought away with some difficulty, and let himself slump back into the mattress. Shadows were flickering across the ceiling, spurred on by the blueish light coming from the TV, and next door, Morgana's stereo was still blaring something about never having been under control. The knot in his stomach didn't lessen, but Arthur figured that that was okay—he hadn't really expected it to.

 

***

By the time his phone rings yet again, Merlin has already sat down on the other bench, opposite of Arthur, and Arthur can feel their knees brush through the fabric of their trousers. All things considered, he suspects that his hands are mutinying against him, because despite his increasingly hopeless mental commands, they have not shoved Merlin away yet.

Although the whole mess started in the showers, they've made it to the locker room eventually, if only because after everything that happened today, Arthur rather felt like he was going to fall over if he didn't sit down. Merlin followed him, of course, once more displaying his startling lack of common sense. The room still smells like sweat from his team's earlier practice session, not the accumulated stink of several weeks' worth of workouts, but the clear, fresh scent of an hour well-spent in the gym.

Merlin moves, very slowly, and pulls the phone from Arthur's pocket, looking down at the name on the display for a moment. He tries to catch Arthur's eye, get his permission somehow, but Arthur refuses to look at him, and so Merlin raises the small black device to his ear after a moment, keeping his gaze on Arthur as he mutters a scratchy hello.

A pause. "No, this is Merlin— um, Merlin Emrys," Merlin says, his voice a little rough with disuse, but he seems to sit up a bit straighter. Then, "Yes," and then a short silence.

Merlin's gaze, which skittered off to the side of Arthur's head, returns to his eyes after a moment. "I'm not sure," he replies hesitantly to whatever his interlocutor has said. Arthur sees his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. "I— could try, though. Um, do you—"

He breaks off and listens, nodding absently although the other person clearly can't see it. Something shifts in his features, though, some nearly untraceable change that Arthur couldn't quite put into words if asked to describe it. Determination settles into Merlin's eyes, chasing the miniscule slump from his shoulders as he straightens up a little, and he doesn't even wince although the movement clearly pulls at his bruises.

"I've had my license for a few months," Merlin says, resolve replacing the previous hesitance in his tone. His eyes are still fixed on Arthur, although Arthur takes great pains to avoid meeting them—he's currently staring at Merlin's left knee, because if he raises his gaze any higher, he'll catch sight of the bruise marring Merlin's cheekbone at the edge of his vision.

Merlin nods again, but this time it looks decisive instead of absentminded. "Yes, sir," he replies to something his interlocutor must have said. "We'll be there in—," pausing for a brief moment, he tries to meet Arthur's gaze once again, hesitating only briefly before finishing, "—half an hour."

 _Sir?_ Arthur stares at him wordlessly, his stomach bottoming out for what seems to be the umpteenth time that day. A vague, nagging suspicion is forming in the back of his head, breaking through the numbing layer of apathy—it feels like being poked and prodded awake by the restless squirm of thought at the very edge of his consciousness.

Merlin disconnects the call, and this time he does wince a little when he puts the phone down on the bench. For a brief moment, Arthur thinks that Merlin must have some shred of common sense left, since he doesn't try to hand it back, but that hope is dashed when Merlin looks up, catching him unawares.

"That was your father," Merlin says, softly now. His eyes are dark and very blue, as though their depth was meant to trap Arthur's gaze all along. "He wants me to take you home."

 

***

 _(2 days earlier)_

Even though Arthur didn't much feel like it, he couldn't help but assume that to an outsider, it must have looked like his life mostly returned to normal during the past week.

He went to his volleyball practices, did his homework, and did his best to ignore everything that had happened. Morgana had taken to shooting him concerned looks over breakfast lately, which was scary and annoying in equal measures, and so Arthur ignored that, too. He drove home early on Friday, as he had been doing ever since Owain had seen him with Merlin, a memory that Arthur didn't allow himself to think about too much because it still made him want to punch something.

He had reached a fragile peace with his team, a truce that he suspected Leon to have hurried along behind his back. Arthur's pride simply did not allow for him to change in the showers, and so he took to arriving early, changing before the rest of the team trickled in, and engaging in random conversations with the coach until the others had left after practice. Nobody ever commented on it, not even Owain, and as the days passed, Arthur allowed himself to relax, if only a little.

The uncomfortable, prickly feeling at the back of his mind never went away, though, but at least the bruises faded from his wrists. Dr. Muirden pulled him aside after practice one day to tell Arthur that apparently the team was going strong again and was once more "running like a well-oiled BMW," as he'd phrased it. Arthur just thanked him, though, and dodged the coach's subtle attempts at finding out what had disrupted them in the first place.

Still, the rush of gratitude when Pellinore invited Arthur to one of their weekly get-togethers was thoroughly unexpected even to Arthur himself. And somehow it still rankled him when they all walked out towards the school's parking lot together, Lance in tow. Sure, Arthur was their captain, but he was also their friend, and he shouldn't _need_ to feel grateful if they decided to graciously allow him to come along. The thought caused a strange itch to form under his skin, an impatience born of the unfamiliar urge to be on his guard around people he was supposed to trust.

Preoccupied as he was, Arthur almost barreled head-first into Leon's back as the other boy suddenly stopped walking. Next to him, Owain broke off mid-sentence in the middle of praising some new bar that had opened near the mall, and Pellinore rubbed a hand across his forehead and heaved a sigh, as though to say, tiredly, _not again_.

A moment later, Arthur understood why. The yard was mostly deserted save for a few clusters of students still scattered about, and despite the approaching twilight of dusk, Arthur could clearly make out Merlin and Mordred next to a small copse of windswept trees.

He didn't even need to look at Owain to know that he was scowling, but as far as Arthur could see, Merlin and Mordred were just talking. Well, Mordred was talking, mostly, gesturing expansively with the hand not holding his cigarette. Even though he took care not to blow the smoke directly into Merlin's face, Arthur got the distinct impression that they were arguing.

Mordred saw them first. He stilled, suddenly, like a cat right before pouncing on an unsuspecting mouse, and Owain took an involuntary step back when Mordred's bright eyes came to rest on him.

Merlin started to turn around to follow Mordred's gaze, but Mordred grabbed the front of his coat and hauled him close, his grin suddenly malicious as he tugged Merlin down, stood on his tiptoes and kissed him.

"Gross!" Owain exclaimed, predictably like clockwork. His hands had clenched into fists, and Pellinore was rolling his eyes even as he put a restraining hand on his teammate's arm. Owain shrugged him off just when Merlin wrenched himself free of Mordred's grip, and elbowed his way through all of them and back into the building.

There was a strange rush in Arthur's stomach at the furious disbelief on Merlin's face, but Arthur didn't feel like waiting to see what it would unfold into if he gave it time. He followed the others back inside, led by Pellinore's slightly exasperated calls for Owain to _wait up, mate, come on, don't be so—_ , and couldn't help the small measure of relief that bubbled up in his chest when Pellinore didn't elaborate on what exactly he wanted Owain to stop being.

He felt Lance's gaze on him when they caught up with Owain in the assembly hall, as steady as it was unsettling, but Arthur didn't turn to acknowledge him. He just stuffed his hands in his pockets, listened to Owain's half-furious, half-offended rant about fags, and wondered why he felt vaguely nauseous. It was the same sensation that had curled into his stomach at the sight of the bruises just a week ago, the sort of slow, sickening feeling of an impending failure that he couldn't stop from happening even if he knew what to watch out for.

As close to the door as he was, Arthur heard them walk past in the hallway a minute later—Mordred's normally clear, cutting voice, now lowered to a timbre that was probably meant to be soothing as he said something about jokes to provoke certain idiots. Merlin's voice, louder than Mordred's—angry, indignant, confused—hacking Mordred's placating murmurs to pieces, not listening.

Arthur could think of a million reasons why that shouldn't make the knot in his stomach loosen ever-so-slightly, but it still did.

 

***

"It was not what it looked like," was the first thing Merlin said to him the next day, the words tumbling hastily from his mouth, shivery with cold and possibly something else. He was breathing hard enough to almost bend in half, steadying himself with a hand pressed to the wall.

Arthur didn't reply at first, just looked down at him from his position at the top of the stairwell. He had heard Merlin call his name at the bus stop, of course; Merlin had been shouting loudly enough to turn quite a lot of confused heads, after all. But Arthur hadn't stopped, just shouldered his way through the crowded snowy yard, dodged a random snowball hurled his way, and ducked into the nearest stairwell.

Well, _fled_ into the nearest stairwell, more like. And Merlin had caught up with him anyway—given how much of a couch potato he seemed to be, it was no surprise to see him almost collapse on the stairs now, panting as if he'd run a marathon. Arthur folded his arms across his chest, and watched the clouds of condensation puffing out from Merlin's mouth in time with his breathing.

When he finally found his voice from wherever it had run off to, Arthur said, very evenly, "As much as I enjoy your inane chatter, Merlin, I have no idea what you're talking about."

Merlin just gave him a disbelieving look, straightening up a little, and fought to control his spasming lungs. His face was flushed from the cold, and he had snow in his hair—Arthur suspected that one of the stray snowballs might have hit him.

"I mean," Merlin finally elaborated, gesturing vaguely with a cold-reddened hand, "with Mordred. That was not—"

"I do not care what that was," Arthur said, and he knew that the cutting anger that suddenly rushed through him was misplaced, but he couldn't have stopped it even if he had tried. "I only care to never see it again."

Merlin's expression twitched, just for a second, but the moment lasted long enough for Arthur to see. The snow was melting slowly, plastering curling clumps of Merlin's hair to his temples, and somehow he looked wary under his veneer. It made words hover on Arthur's tongue, but they fled before he could decipher their meaning, and so he didn't say anything.

"He just wanted to annoy Owain," Merlin said at last, although his voice was quiet this time, perhaps quieter than Arthur had ever heard him sound. Something twisted in his chest, curling up protectively around a small fissure of hurt that he had not anticipated.

He choked it back down with difficulty, though, and remained silent. Merlin was looking up at him, his eyes clear and very blue, strangely unaffected by the defensive set of his shoulders. His gaze made Arthur feel like something was expected of him, something big and far-off and frightening, although to Merlin, it didn't appear to be all that big of a challenge, if the untroubled calm in his eyes was anything to go by.

"Are you finished?" Arthur asked, after the silence had stretched for long enough to grow uncomfortable. Merlin's steady gaze unnerved him, made him feel like Merlin was utterly sure that Arthur would pass this... _test_ , or whatever it was. It itched beneath his skin, dropping a strange, unsteady weight into his chest. Oddly enough, the sensation reminded him of how he'd felt when Merlin's mother had smiled at him in the parking lot, although this time it was sharper, deeper, unfurling low in his belly and cresting up like a tidal wave.

"I—," Merlin started, and deflated visibly at the aloofness in Arthur's tone. He still managed to look stubborn, though, and didn't even blink when the door on the ground floor burst open with a bang.

Laughing chatter suddenly filled the stairwell, peppered with exclamations as some of the younger students never stopped pelting each other with dripping snowballs even after the door had swung shut behind them. Merlin never broke Arthur's gaze, though, not even as the rising tide of students pushed past them—there was just the tiniest fissure of disappointment in his eyes, as though he _knew_ that Arthur could have done better than that, but he didn't speak.

When Arthur's eyes instinctively started to search for Owain in the crowd, the familiar, worried thought of whether he'd seen him with Merlin unfurling slowly at the very edge of his consciousness, Arthur gritted his teeth so hard they hurt. But as always, he didn't allow the frustrated anger to explode outwards, just swallowed it down right along with the knot that had formed in his throat. He turned around and bounded up the rest of the stairs, Merlin's gaze like a physical touch on his back, and the burn in his chest followed him all along the still-empty hallway, an useless simmering in the back of his mind.

 

***

At Merlin's third mumbled apology for crashing the wheel rims into the curb, Arthur comes to the unsurprising conclusion that Merlin is not a very good driver.

Which makes sense, Arthur thinks, considering the fact that he's only had a few months' worth of experience, and has probably never driven a car even half as expensive as Arthur's. He keeps killing the engine at every intersection simply because he doesn't quite dare to accelerate enough, he's switched on the headlights although dusk is barely beginning to darken the horizon, but no matter how carefully he steers, he still manages to collide with the curb every so often.

It's sort of ridiculous that after everything that happened today, it's the possibility of crashing Arthur's car that finally makes Merlin nervous. The thought doesn't exactly make Arthur laugh or even smile, but he feels like he might in retrospect, in about a week's time.

"Your father said that Leon called him," Merlin finally speaks up next to him, sounding a bit like he's been mulling over the words for a while in his mind, "after they'd taken Owain to the hospital. He thought you might have gone home."

Arthur doesn't reply. They haven't been talking much ever since Merlin shouldered past Arthur to the driver's side and held out an expectant hand for the keys, which Arthur gave to him without even protesting. He knows he should have felt affronted at the notion that Merlin doesn't think him capable of driving; but then again, Leon probably exaggerated the details of his fight with Owain when he'd called Uther, because his father didn't seem too keen on the idea of Arthur driving home by himself either.

From then on, it was only the occasional exchange of short words as Arthur gave him directions, staring out at the familiar scenery passing by at an unfamiliarly slow pace. He still has the feeling that Merlin is driving far more slowly than Arthur usually does, but a glance at the speed-o-meter confirmed that Merlin is simply obeying the speed limit around three miles ago.

Uther's house (well, _mansion_ , as Morgana insists on calling it) is at the very edge of town, reachable only by way of a winding, tree-lined road that makes Merlin gape a little even as he struggles to navigate smoothly through the bends and turns. Arthur never really thought to pay attention to anyone's first reaction upon seeing the house's looming shadow through the trees—he doesn't take just anyone home with him, and he's known most of his friends since kindergarten, and they've had time to grow accustomed to it. Merlin's wide-eyed wonder would probably be amusing in any other situation, even slightly endearing, but right now, Arthur can't bring himself to even look at it for too long.

Merlin lets the car roll to a slow stop when the road forks out in front of them—the right-hand road, Arthur knows, leads down to a small hunting lodge at the edge of the forest, a remnant of the long-passed time the mansion was built in. He's already opened his mouth to direct Merlin towards the house when Merlin sighs, long and low, and braces his hands against the steering wheel.

"I haven't gotten the chance to thank you yet," he says, quietly, although he's wise enough not to turn to look at Arthur. The hesitance is back in his tone, but he still sounds self-assured underneath—like he's sure that it's the right thing to say, although he doesn't know if it's the right time.

"Left," Arthur says by way of reply, his voice suddenly coming out scratchy and unused. For the first time, it occurs to him to wonder where his anger has gone, the prickling itch under his skin that almost made him _want_ Merlin to misstep just so it could explode into sudden, meaningless violence. Maybe he's left it in the locker room, maybe he shut it away when he closed the door and Merlin didn't say a word although it had taken Arthur an embarrassingly long time to stay his shaking hands enough to fit the key into the lock.

Next to him, Merlin sighs. The clicking of the signal sounds loud in the hush until he carefully releases the clutch and lets the car roll down the left road. Arthur opens his mouth again, a scathing comment about how it's not necessary to signal in the middle of a private road leading up to an old country mansion already perched on his tongue. But then he thinks, just briefly, that Merlin probably found the sudden silence just as unbearable as he did, and Arthur thinks better of speaking, settling back into the passenger seat instead.

 

***

 _(1 hour earlier)_

In retrospect, the stormy Thursday afternoon during the first week of December went down in Arthur's personal history as one of those days that made him wonder whether Morgana might be right in thinking him unobservant.

There were certain obligations that came with being the captain of the volleyball team, after all, and Arthur still remembered the little speech Mr. Muirden had given him almost a year ago. He was supposed to be their leader, the one who was first in the gym and last out, and the one his team turned to for advice and guidance. But most of all, there was little that was more important than _knowing_ his teammates, their strengths and weaknesses, and to be able to discern the nearly unnoticeable, tell-tale signs of strained endurance, and of patience being stretched too thin.

He should have seen it coming, after everything else that had happened already, but somehow, the raised voices Arthur heard upon walking out of the gym complex still took him completely by surprise.

Practice hadn't gone too badly, all things considered, and the team had been quick and alert, more so than usual after a long day at school. Even Owain did better than he had in weeks, his eyes gleaming with a vicious, focused kind of energy that made his spikes just that bit more deadly, and propelled the ball a little higher towards the ceiling with each dig. Arthur hadn't questioned the intent on his face, assuming that Owain had had a bad day at school and was channeling the frustration into some of the best passes Arthur had ever seen from him.

After practice, Arthur had clapped Owain on the shoulder and told him that he'd done a good job when they passed each other on the way to the locker room. He'd been feeling magnanimous, benevolent even, and willing to overlook Owain's past behavior just for long enough to compliment him on an hour of practice well spent. Owain had looked taken aback, but even then, Arthur never thought to suspect his smile of being anything but genuine.

Now, though, Owain clearly wasn't smiling, if his tone was anything to go by. Arthur stopped in his tracks just outside the gym, bag slung over his shoulder and his face turned into the wintry breeze that cooled his overheated skin. His teammate's voice rose to a shout as Arthur turned around, searching the yard, but the noise seemed to come from behind.

Arthur frowned, redirecting his steps to the narrow path, and wondered what matter could be so private that Owain only discussed it behind the gym. He was still too far away to make out the words when Owain spoke again, more quietly this time, although no less belligerent—Arthur sped up into a light jog, his muscles still warm and loose from practice. Normally he wasn't one to spy on his teammates, but Arthur recognized that tone, and knew all too well that it usually led to chafed knuckles and bloody noses.

Maybe he'd gotten into an argument with Leon, Arthur thought as he rounded the corner of the gym, seeing a flash of movement from behind a small, snowed-in copse of leafless trees. Leon's temper wasn't easy to rouse from its usual mellow state, but once someone struck just the right spark, it could roar up into a flash of fire, and Arthur really hoped that it wasn't him Owain was shouting at. Owain was shorter than Leon, more stocky, but Arthur still wouldn't know who to bet on if they came to blows.

Snow trickled into the collar of his shirt as he ducked under a few low-hanging branches; he still couldn't make out any words of the argument, his own breathing and the rustle of his waterproof coat drowning out most other noises. But whoever Owain was arguing with apparently had no sense of self-preservation, because Arthur heard them _talk back_ , and everything froze in him as he recognized Merlin's voice.

"That's just completely _ridiculous_ ," Merlin exclaimed, sounding genuinely frustrated, like he was trying and failing to understand what Owain was shouting at him about. There was just the barest hint of apprehension in his tone, although Arthur could tell that he tried very hard to hide it. "I don't even—"

Arthur broke through the treeline just when Owain grabbed Merlin by the front of his coat and slammed him into the wall of the gym, and even from a distance, Arthur heard the thud when his head collided with the bricks. Merlin's hands, which had been outstretched in a placating gesture, jerked, but he didn't try to dislodge Owain's grip, probably realizing that resistance would just make Owain angrier.

"Dude," another voice broke in, and Arthur suddenly noticed Pellinore, who had put a hand on Owain's arm and looked nervous and wary. "Dude, calm _down_ , what the fuck? You said you just wanted to talk—"

Owain didn't seem to hear him, though; he crowded Merlin into the wall, jerking his arm out of Pellinore's grasp in the process. "He's been completely _out_ of it, and it's all _your fault!_ " he shouted. His voice echoed oddly, doubling back the words and the barely-there hysteria underneath the fury in his tone. "I _knew_ you were bad news right from the start, and you'd better _stay away_ from Arthur if you want to survive the term!"

"I never—," Merlin started, now sounding vaguely indignant, and a distant part of Arthur rolled his eyes—it was _just_ like Merlin to try to reason with someone who was shaking him by the front of his coat, hard enough for his back to collide with the wall again. But although he couldn't see Owain's face, he could picture the grimace of rage his features must have twisted into, because Merlin shrunk back, probably realizing that he was about to get punched.

Arthur didn't even bother raising his fists. His body was in motion before his mind could fully catch up, the frozen shock in him shattering, and he barreled into Owain with all his weight before he'd even told his legs to move, tackling him to the ground. Pellinore exclaimed something Arthur couldn't quite make out, but he didn't care anyway, didn't care about anything save for the white-hot fury that exploded in his head, without warning and just because Owain had been about to beat Merlin up— _Merlin_ , who was tall but so scrawny that even his reckless brand of courage couldn't have helped him stand up to a trained athlete.

Owain let out a wordless shout of pain when Arthur's fist collided with his jaw, and Arthur almost felt the splintering crack of bone before Owain's hands were on him, trying to dislodge his weight. They rolled over, and Owain managed to smash his elbow into Arthur's eye, but the pain was faraway and indistinct underneath the adrenalin that coursed through his veins. Stars burst across his vision when his head thumped into the frozen ground, but another shove gave him just enough leverage to put his fist into Owain's stomach. His teammate retched, his grip slipping for a moment, but Arthur barely got in another punch to his face before Owain's knee slammed into his chest, pushing the air out of his lungs.

Dimly, he could hear more shouting, but the words couldn't penetrate the roar of noise in his ears, the crazed, violent pounding of his heart and the quick, raspy sound of his own breathing. He didn't even notice that Owain's nose was bleeding copiously all over them both, or that his own eye was swelling shut and an ominous throbbing in his ribs heralded what would be a big, colorful bruise the next day. It felt like something in the back of his head had finally snapped, some strand of patience that had been stretched too thin for far too long. All the pent-up frustration of the past weeks seemed to burst out of him now, mingling all too easily with the tidal surge of unthinking anger that had erupted in him when he'd seen Owain push Merlin into the wall.

But there were hands on his shoulders, trying to pull him off of Owain, and Arthur snarled wordlessly, struggling against the arm that wound firmly around his chest. The red-hot fog hadn't quite lifted from his vision yet, but he recognized the arm as Leon's—and suddenly it was like someone had turned up the volume of the world around him, because he could hear Leon practically shouting into his ear now, telling him to _stop, Arthur,_ stop it, _you'll kill him—_

The familiarity of Leon's voice was enough to make Arthur loosen his grip just for a moment, and Leon pulled him backwards and out of Owain's reach—Pellinore was doing the same with Owain, trying to drag him up into a standing position. Arthur dragged himself to his feet as Pellinore finally managed to twist Owain's arm behind his back, but Owain didn't even seem to feel the burn of sprained muscles. He tried to lunge at Arthur again, his face flushed a blotchy red even underneath the blood that still ran freely from his nose, and Arthur barely recognized him for the twisted grimace on his features.

But the whirlwind of frustrated rage in Arthur's head was already receding, having blown itself out in the crack of his fist into Owain's jaw, although he still felt tense all over, ready to react if Owain so much as took a single step towards Merlin. He struggled briefly against Leon's hold, the movement little more than a sharp jerk of his shoulders, but Leon let him go instantly, apparently realizing that Arthur was still so wound up that restraining him would only aggravate him further.

Merlin stood a little off to the side, and of course he looked scared _now_ , when no one was threatening to beat him up anymore. His gaze was flickering back and forth between Pellinore and Owain before coming to rest on Arthur with a kind of dawning concern—his eye had swollen completely shut by now, and the side of his face was probably turning black and blue. He felt the pain now, too, a dull, blunt throb in his head and his stomach and various other places where Owain's fists or knees had landed without him noticing.

"I knew it," Owain spat, as soon as he'd recovered enough to talk. His face had gone a pasty white that stood out in stark contrast against the blood still trickling from his nose. "I _knew_ he'd turned you into a faggot—what did he do? Did he _charm_ you, suck your brain out through your cock so he could mess with your head—"

Pellinore cuffed him in the shoulder to cut him off, not quite as hard as Arthur would have done, but hard enough to produce a wince. "Shut _up_ ," Leon said, his voice dangerously quiet, and his eyes were dark and angry when Arthur turned to look at him. "Shut the _fuck_ up. The only messed-up head here is yours."

A low buzz was humming in Arthur's ears, probably from when his head had gotten smashed into the frozen ground, and suddenly he felt almost drowsy, the familiar leaden weight of fatigue pulling on the firm set of his shoulders and the clench of his fists. The cold winter air did nothing to alleviate the tiredness that settled into his bones as an exhausted tremor; it felt a bit like the exhaustion of falling into bed after a hard-won game, but it lacked the fierce triumph and the euphoria of having won, although he was fairly sure he'd broken Owain's jaw, and maybe his nose as well.

They were all looking at him, he realized dimly, waiting for him to speak. The color was returning to Merlin's face, but he looked even more worried now, and he'd moved closer to Arthur's other side some time ago without him noticing.

"You're going to talk to Dr. Muirden tomorrow," Arthur said to Owain, but his mouth seemed to be moving on its own accord, the words coming from a calm, detached place in the back of his mind that knew that there was no other way to deal with this. "You'll tell him that this year's classes are more demanding than you thought they'd be, and that you're leaving the team, because God knows there's room for improvement in your grades. If I ever see your face in my gym again, I will rearrange it until even your mother doesn't recognize you anymore."

The words came out as hoarse as if he'd been screaming for an hour, although Arthur felt briefly grateful to whichever calm vestige of his mind prevented his voice from shaking. Pellinore, who had always been friends with Owain, looked stricken for a moment; but when he slowly let go of Owain's arm, Arthur knew he wasn't going to second-guess his captain's decision. At his side, Leon drew himself up to his full height as though to dare anyone to protest.

Owain just stared at him for a moment, disbelief briefly chasing the hateful grimace from his features, but even he seemed to realize that Arthur was as serious as he'd ever been. He looked at Pellinore, who stepped back a little when their eyes met, and there was a worrying spark of something dark in his eyes when his gaze finally came to rest on Merlin. Unconsciously, Arthur widened his stance, shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet in spite of the brief, warning touch of Leon's hand to his shoulder.

A few seconds passed in strained, frozen silence, but Arthur could actually see the moment the fight went out of Owain and he realized, with a dim sort of surprise, that he was quite spectacularly outnumbered. His shoulders slumped a little, although his fists never unclenched, and in the late afternoon light his eyes looked almost black.

He seemed to be searching for something to say, something spiteful and scathing, but to Arthur's own surprise, he had no trouble at all holding his now former teammate's gaze. He watched Owain go even paler, not caring about the stings of pain his own heartbeat was setting off in his temple, and let the hush speak for itself to assure Owain that he meant every word he'd said.

Owain looked from him to Merlin and back again, but then he finally dropped his gaze with a quiet, disgusted sound, and wiped at his nose with his sleeve. It left a dark red streak on the light blue of his coat, but he didn't seem to notice or care. He turned around and stumbled back towards the copse of snowed-in trees, his gait not as steady as he probably would have liked despite the ramrod-straight, obstinate line of his back, and Arthur thought that he was probably feeling dizzy as well.

Pellinore kept his gaze on Owain's retreating back until the trees hid him from view. Then he turned to Arthur, catching his gaze with an expression Arthur didn't think he'd ever seen on his face—a kind of subdued hopefulness, as if he wanted to ask something of him, but didn't think that his request had even a slim chance of being granted.

After a moment, Arthur concluded tiredly that he was supposed to say something, although he had no idea what. The tremble of stale exhaustion that had sneaked into his spine made thinking harder and harder, and for some reason his mind kept circling and circling around the vague realization that he'd need to fill Owain's space in the team.

Leon seemed to know what Pellinore wanted, though, and a surge of fierce gratitude briefly pierced the fog that had settled into Arthur's mind. "You'd better go after him," he told Pellinore, his voice pitched low as though he wanted to avoid startling any of them. "His jaw might be broken."

Heaving a relieved sigh, Pellinore nodded, and set off after Owain at a light jog. Arthur hoped that he'd keep his head down when he caught up with his former teammate—knowing Owain's temper, he'd still be riled up enough to lash out at anyone who so much as met his eyes for a second too long. But Pellinore had known Owain since middle school, and probably knew all too well how to handle him when he got like this.

Now that Owain was gone, both Leon and Merlin were staring at Arthur, and the open concern in Merlin's eyes made a prickling itch of budding irritation start up under his skin. He suddenly found that he hated being looked at like that, like he was expected to either keel over or perform some sort of trick, and he jerked his own gaze away from Merlin's when their eyes met for the briefest second, gritting his teeth.

"Arthur—," Leon started at his other side, sounding worried and slightly wary, as though Arthur were a skittish horse he needed to calm down. The tension in him snapped like a thread, and he clenched his hands into fists, well aware that they would have been trembling otherwise.

"Right," Arthur said, to no one in particular, although he heard the way his voice came out too loud, echoing slightly like Owain's had earlier. "That's that, then," and he pushed away from the tentative hand Leon had once more put on his shoulder. The frozen ground seemed to sway and buck under his weight for a moment, but then his feet steadied, and he walked off towards the gym's front doors with the vague intention of getting something cold and wet onto his eye some time soon.

Merlin caught up with him in the shower room, but Arthur had heard him trudge along behind him all along, although Merlin had apparently tried to be quiet and grant him some measure of privacy at least until they reached the gym. He had the sense to remain hovering in the doorway, though, and Arthur figured that one had to be grateful for small favors.

He didn't spare even a single glance at Merlin, not even when the other boy softly cleared his throat,  
and continued to carefully run a wad of wet toilet paper over his eye. The pain was more acute now than it had been outside, an ever-present throb that spiked into sharp stings whenever he touched it, however lightly. The only available mirror was in the locker room, though, and Arthur was kind of glad that he didn't have to look at the damage right now anyway. The porcelain sink was reassuringly solid, something to prop his hip up against, because he still felt alarmingly unsteady on his feet, and the stale taste in his mouth made him faintly nauseous.

It was a bit like he'd felt in the shower a mere week ago, when he'd first seen the bruises that he had thought he'd left behind for good. Even now, with a blunt ache pulsing in his ribs and what was supposedly a massive bruise on the side of his face, Arthur found it hard to feel anything but incredulous. Sure, he should have seen it coming, least of all because he was the thrice-damned _captain_ and it was his duty to recognize any and all signs leading up to what had almost derailed into a gay bashing. But although he'd been slightly worried by Owain's behavior towards Merlin right from the start of the term, an image of the nearly hysterical, furious look on his face still hovered in front of Arthur's mind's eye, and he just couldn't reconcile that with the usually easy-going, slightly lofty boy he'd known for years.

He dropped the soaked toilet paper into the sink, and stared stupidly at the drops of blood on the porcelain for a moment until he realized that his hand was bleeding. Rough from the wintry cold as it was, it had only taken a few well-placed punches for the skin to split over his knuckles. Arthur turned on the tap, leaning against the sink as icy water ran over his hand—it numbed the ache in his fingers, though it did nothing to alleviate the dizziness.

"I'm sorry," Merlin said eventually, his voice soft, but not soft enough for Arthur to pretend he hadn't heard. He sounded subdued, guilty even, as though he truly believed the sentiment would change anything.

 _That_ finally penetrated the thick haze that had been fogging up Arthur's thoughts, and he turned to look at Merlin before he could stop himself, blinking at him in utter disbelief. He had no idea what Merlin could be apologizing for, whether it was for the loss of a valued teammate, or the bruise on his face, or even the shell-shocked silence in the back of his mind.

But he found that he didn't really care to find out either way, because he'd need to muster up the energy to get angry if Merlin really was feeling sorry for _him_ and not for the fact that he'd kicked Owain out of the team. He turned off the tap, wincing at the numbness in his hand, before he replied, in a neutral note, "I don't want you to be sorry."

Merlin nodded slowly, as though he'd expected that answer all along. The set of his shoulders was guarded, but his eyes were not, and his gaze never strayed from Arthur's when he asked, carefully, "Anything else you don't want?"

Arthur stared at him wordlessly, and wished, for a single, thoughtless moment, that he didn't know what Merlin was going on about. The beginnings of wintry dusk were slowly dimming the light that streamed in through the door to the locker room, partly obscured by Merlin's body, who was still standing in the doorway and looked like he wouldn't budge until they'd... _talked_ about this, or whatever it was he was trying to achieve. Arthur knew he needed to drive home some time soon, and make up a good excuse for his swelled-shut eye, but those things seemed oddly inane and inconsequential in the face of the steady intent in Merlin's eyes. He looked like he'd stand there all evening waiting for an answer if need be, as though with this, time didn't matter at all.

Merlin's voice was even quieter when he spoke again—to Arthur, it sounded like he'd spent quite a few long nights thinking about the words, although they now came out in an oddly unguarded rush. "What _do_ you want, then?"

The words sparked an uncalled-for surge of anger, and Arthur pushed himself away from the sink, ignoring Merlin's startled intake of breath when he swayed on his feet for a moment. It was not unlike how he'd felt on that day in the library, when Merlin had insisted, the words carefully written beneath the angry scrawl or Arthur's pen, that there was nothing to fight over. Once again he felt like Merlin was putting him through some sort of test, like Arthur was being goaded into a challenge he wouldn't have recognized otherwise.

"Because if you—," Merlin started, and took a deep breath, and even in the dim light Arthur saw him square his shoulders, like he was bracing himself against the impact of his own words. "If this is— if you want it, you can have it."

"Shut up," Arthur said, because he didn't know what to do with the uncertainty that he could just barely make out underneath the calm veneer of Merlin's tone. The restless unsteadiness was back, and the first steps towards the door felt dangerously like he was going to fall, and Arthur had quite enough of getting his head knocked into solid things for the day. On the other hand, an unconcerned part of Arthur's mind concluded, if he fell and ended up with a concussion, he might forget what Merlin had just said. Which would be better than having to turn the words over in his mind, and Arthur found that he rather wanted to go home, curl up in his bed and sleep for a day, and not spend a single second thinking about what Merlin was implying.

Merlin frowned at him when he caught on to the fact that, as wavering as Arthur's steps were, he was trying to _walk out_ on him, and pushed away from the wall to block the doorway with his skinny frame.

"Arthur," he started, stepping towards him, and although Merlin's touch was feather-light when he put a hesitant hand on his arm, Arthur still flinched as though Merlin had jumped at him with flying fists. It occurred to him that this situation bore a weird kind of resemblance to that day when he'd had to change in the shower room and Leon had come after him, except for the single pinpoint of touch at his elbow.

"Let me go," Arthur said, despite the fact that he could easily have thrown off Merlin's fingers—but somehow he knew that Merlin wasn't going to move from the doorway. His voice sounded wooden and hollow, like a rehearsed line delivered by an unenthusiastic actor, and up close, Arthur couldn't pretend that he didn't notice the way Merlin's eyes softened with concern. "Merlin, _let me go_."

He could see Merlin's throat work as he swallowed, but he didn't budge. "Arthur, look," he started, his voice pitched low, placating, "let's just—"

With sudden, startling clarity, Arthur found that he didn't want to hear the end of that sentence, and that Merlin's touch on his arm seemed to burn him, scorching through the thick layers of his coat and his sweater and searing a brand into his skin. He shoved at Merlin to get him out of the way, a too-forceful push born of the reckless, impatient frustration that still simmered in his gut and felt like it had been eating at him ever since Owain had first called Merlin a fag.

Merlin's breath left him in a rush, and he grimaced when his back collided with the doorframe—quick as a flash, Arthur recalled how Owain had slammed him against the wall, but the sting of pain didn't deter Merlin at all, if the sudden glint of aggravation in his eyes was anything to go by. " _Arthur_ ," he repeated, with more vigor than before, but it was the lack of hesitance in the sudden, tight grip of Merlin's hands on his shoulders that snapped Arthur's patience.

Usually, he never would have so much as brawled with Merlin—his sense of honor dictated as much, because comparing Merlin's scrawniness to his own more muscular frame seemed ridiculous even if he took into account that Merlin was slightly taller. Now, though, Arthur found himself not all that surprised that Merlin could give as good as he got. And they weren't really _fighting_ anyway, they were just shoving each other around because Arthur wanted to get through the damn door and Merlin wouldn't _let_ him, wouldn't let go of his coat, no matter how hard Arthur struggled to wrestle out of his hold.

The roar of blood was back in Arthur's ears as though it had never been quieted in the first place, but this time there was a curious flickering at the edges of his vision, like all the anger in him had burned itself out in his fight with Owain and couldn't quite rise to the occasion now. His breath was coming hard and fast, but at least he managed to twist away from one of Merlin's grasping hands when Merlin made the mistake of trying to crowd him back into the room. He tried to push Merlin's weight into the wall with his now free arm, but he hadn't counted on Merlin suddenly lunging forward, and there was a sharp crack as Arthur's elbow collided with Merlin's cheek.

Merlin let out a little gasp and stumbled back, releasing Arthur in favor of clutching his head, squeezing his eyes shut with a grimace of pain. Hell, Arthur's _elbow_ hurt from the force of the blow, and for just a moment he wondered, helplessly, what the fuck was _wrong_ with him today that made him keep breaking people's jaws.

Arthur watched in numb silence as Merlin slowly straightened up, wincing as he gingerly probed his cheek. In spite of the dim light, Arthur could see that a bruise was already forming just beneath his cheekbone, and he wanted nothing more than to say that he was sorry, because he _was_ , he'd just wanted to get out of the room, he'd never intended to nearly smash Merlin's face in.

But it seemed like heavy, trembling breaths were the only thing he could force past the hot, jagged lump in his throat, and so he didn't speak. He probably should have used his greater weight to his advantage, to throw Merlin off of him as quickly and gently as he could and made a run for it. But he hadn't really expected Merlin to just hang onto him like that, to refuse to give even an inch of ground. It had never occurred to him that Merlin hadn't stopped him from leaving just to annoy him, but that he'd probably just wanted him to stay.

Only now that they were apart did Arthur notice how warm Merlin had been, how he'd felt his body heat despite the thick layers of clothes between them. It was an oddly idle thought, misplaced in the jumble of exhausted, frustrated confusion that seemed to have taken up permanent residence at the back of his mind. He flinched back as Merlin lifted his head, but Arthur couldn't stop the instinctive movement, not even when Merlin readily met his gaze as though nothing had happened at all.

His heart was pounding out a frantic staccato in his chest, and Merlin was coming closer, or maybe Arthur was swaying forward. It probably didn't matter who moved first anyway; he still wanted to get out, but the thought seemed faint and far away. Merlin's eyes were wide and dark but no longer uncertain. That hadn't suited him anyway, Arthur thought hazily, and it should probably worry him how his breath kept hitching in his chest. He felt oddly disconnected from himself, as if he was reduced to being a passenger in his own body, surveying his surroundings with detached interest.

This time, though, his reflexes were too sluggish to push Merlin away when he grabbed him by the front of his coat, yanked him close, and crushed his lips to Arthur's.

Somehow, inanely, the first thought that wrestled itself to the front of his mind was that it was different from kissing Sophia. His former girlfriend had been outwardly pliant, all lush lips that tasted like strawberry lipstick, and soft curves that pressed a little too close for comfort even when they'd been out in the yard in full view of everyone who happened to look their way. But for some reason she never shut her eyes, and the feeling of Sophia's gaze on him had always made feel Arthur oddly self-conscious about kissing her, like she was gauging his reaction and her body was poised to attack underneath the soft press of her breasts against his ribs.

Merlin wasn't pliant, though. Arthur could feel his knuckles dig into his chest where Merlin's hands were fisted in his coat, and there was nothing hidden in his eyes because he'd closed them, whether in concentration or out of fear, Arthur didn't know. All of Arthur's muscles had locked tight on instinct, as though braced against an attack, but the frenzied sprint of his heart just quickened the rush that went through him, a bone-deep shiver that scorched a path down his spine and left goosebumps in its wake. He inhaled, a single, startled intake of breath, and Merlin responded by catching the slack bow of his bottom lip between his own, and Arthur felt just the faintest scrape of teeth before his weight shifted forward on its own accord, into the startling, addictive heat of Merlin's mouth on his.

Somehow, it felt like a lot of unsaid things went into the kiss, and in retrospect, Arthur knew that it couldn't have lasted for more than a few seconds, although it felt like minutes. But unlike the kisses that still reminded him of his breakup with Sophia, there was nothing hidden and unsettlingly subliminal about it. Merlin's mouth didn't taste like much of anything except skin and spit, and his lips were chapped from the cold, a coarse, prickling edge that shot heat through Arthur's veins to coil low in his gut.

There was nothing rough about the way his tongue delved into Arthur's mouth, though, the firm gentleness a startling contrast to the clench of his fists in Arthur's coat—it was like he'd decided, belatedly, to do his best not to startle Arthur into trying to run away again.

Only when he felt Arthur's hands on his shoulders did Merlin open his eyes, and dazed as he was, Arthur wasn't quick enough not to notice the way his pupils were blown wide, swallowing up any and all color save for a thin ring of blue.

The shove, when it came, wasn't entirely unexpected, if the sudden spark of resigned belligerence in Merlin's gaze was anything to go by, but somehow, Arthur knew that it still hurt more than Merlin let on.

 

***

His car emits a faint sort of croak when Merlin kills the engine for the last time that day, and it's a testament to how out of it Arthur is that it doesn't occur to him to wonder at the sight of Lance's battered old car, looking oddly misplaced on the tree-lined driveway.

Merlin has jumped out of the driver's seat and is halfway around the car before Arthur so much as unfastens his seatbelt, but a single warning glare is enough to send Merlin back to hovering uncertainly when he opens the passenger door. Arthur struggles out of his seat on his own, although he can't help a hiss of pain when he attempts to straighten up. His ribs hurt something awful by now, a bone-deep ache that he suspects even painkillers won't drain away completely; his stomach must be a mess of bruises, and he takes a mental note to lock the door to his room before he takes off his shirt later.

From the corner of his eye, Arthur sees Merlin make several quick, aborted movements in his direction as they slowly walk up the driveway to the front door. He looks like he's having some strange seizure, but he's probably just trying to keep himself from reaching out to steady Arthur whenever his gait falters. No matter how gingerly he sets down his feet, each step feels like the pounding of a jackhammer in his skull, and it's all Arthur can do to try to wipe the pained grimace off his face when the front door is suddenly flung open.

Arthur thinks, somewhat hazily, that he can't recall when he last saw his father move so quickly. He's down the steps before Arthur can so much as blink, eyes giving him a quick once-over as he takes in the bruise marring his face and the hunch in his posture. He's still in his suit, but the tie is undone and he's paler than Arthur has seen him in a long time.

The undisguised concern in Uther's gaze is foreign and unfamiliar enough that it makes Arthur feel oddly crowded, and so he takes a deep breath, pulling a somewhat lopsided smile onto his face. "You should see the other guy."

It's not as good a comeback as he would have liked, but he still sees something relax in his father's face; apparently, he realizes that as long as Arthur can still crack jokes, however lame, he doesn't have to be swept off to hospital. Uther's gaze moves on to Merlin, and Arthur would have found the boy's squirming hilarious in any other situation; still, he almost expects Merlin to attempt to flatten his hair any second.

"Um, I'm Merlin," he says hastily, sticking out a haphazard hand on instinct. "Merlin Emrys— we talked on the phone— well, Arthur's phone— I wouldn't have picked up normally, I just—"

Arthur sees the recognition on his father's face even before he reaches out to firmly shake Merlin's hand; Merlin appears shocked to have his clumsy greeting accepted at all, but even manages a somewhat harried-looking smile. He looks cold, and Arthur can hardly blame him—to him, the icy winter wind is a relief, clearing his head and soothing the ache in his eye, but he still follows when his father herds them towards the front door.

"Thank you for bringing my son home," Uther says quietly as they're scaling the steps to the front door; Arthur blinks at him for a moment, startled, before he realizes that his father's eyes are fixed on Merlin.

Merlin, who nearly trips over the last step at the words. "Oh," he replies, dumbfounded, and even in the fading light of dusk, Arthur can see that his ears are slowly turning red. "Um, yeah, that's— alright, really."

If he didn't think that it would hurt far too much, Arthur would have rolled his eyes.

The entrance hall is only dimly lit, but Arthur still catches Merlin gaping at the paintings lining the walls and the high, domed ceiling as they shrug off their coats. Their steps echo on the hardwood floor as Uther leads them past the staircase, and Arthur casts a longing look at what little he can see of the first floor hallway. He'd like nothing more than to go to bed, maybe take a quick shower to rinse away the dried sweat from practice. But he knows that his father—or Merlin, for that matter—won't let him go without thoroughly checking him for any injuries that won't be better the next morning, and so he follows without complaint.

The blaze of light hurts his good eye when his father opens the door to the dining room, but he still sees three figures huddled close together on one end of the long oaken table. All things considered, Arthur has been expecting Morgana and Leon, but Lance is a surprise, even after the sight of his car—maybe he heard of the fight and came to make sure he's okay. But if rumor has gotten around to Lance already, the entire school will know tomorrow that he kicked Owain out of the team, if not the reason. Arthur swallows, feeling a little sick.

Morgana rises from her chair when she catches sight of him, and for just a moment Arthur gets to see the relief warring with concern in her eyes. Then her expression turns determined; before Arthur can so much as think of ducking out of the way, she has pulled him into the room and pushed him down on an empty chair. Something chilled and slippery is suddenly pressed to his eye, and Arthur flinches away for a moment before recognizing the ice pack.

The cold is a welcome relief to his throbbing temple, and Arthur lets out a slow breath that feels like he's been holding it for the past hour when the chill slowly seeps into the raw, abused skin. It's too late for the coldness to alleviate the swelling, but this way he probably won't have quite as splitting a headache tomorrow, and God knows he'll need his wits about him when Owain has told everyone and their mom about their fight tomorrow. He finds his gaze catching on Lance, who looks like he's valiantly trying to conceal his worry but finds himself failing, if the deepening frown is anything to go by.

"Leon called me," Lance says by way of explanation when he notices Arthur's eyes on him. He shrugs awkwardly, seeming to second-guess his reasons for coming here for the first time. "And, I don't know, I just thought that maybe I could help."

Arthur nods, momentarily relieved that word didn't reach his best friend by way of the rumor mill. The area behind the gym is quite secluded, after all, so maybe the bruise on his face will be the only thing drawing people's gazes to him if he manages to go to school the next day. And he's a little surprised to find that he _is_ grateful for Lance's presence, although he has no idea how to explain what happened—which is doubtlessly what Lance will ask the moment he catches Arthur alone, no matter if that'll be tonight or only in a few days' time.

Leon has stood up too when Morgana rose from her seat, and his gaze is now flitting between Arthur and Merlin, who is still standing in the doorway, not quite daring to come closer. "You okay?" Leon asks awkwardly, addressing the question to Merlin—he's probably seen in Arthur's eyes that no matter how shaken and tired he feels, any concern will be deflected at all costs.

Merlin blinks, startled at being spoken to, and nods after a moment. "Yeah," he says; Arthur sees him pull his sleeve over his hand, an oddly misplaced, nervous movement. "I wanted to thank you," Merlin continues, the words clumsy but sincere. "For—"

Leon shakes his head, cutting Merlin off, but a bit of the tension leaves his shoulders. "Anyone would have done the same."

There's a brief pause as they all collectively mull over how that's not true at all, or at least not of the students of Avalon High. Arthur suddenly notices how the bruise on Merlin's cheek looks even worse in the glow of the lightbulbs, and quickly averts his gaze to the shimmering wood of the table, his stomach roiling with another stir of nausea.

Uther hovers near the table, and his tight, anxious expression would have made Arthur laugh in any other situation, simply because he doesn't think he's ever seen it on his father's face before. "I could call Gaius," he offers, sounding like he's been thinking about that for some time but held it back, something in the air checking his usual rashness.

"No," Arthur says, quickly now, because if there's one thing he doesn't want, it's getting fussed over by his father's best friend who also happens to be a doctor. "No, I'm fine, really."

Morgana scoffs, too quietly for Uther to hear, and presses the ice pack a bit tighter to Arthur's face. "Keep it there," she instructs brusquely, but lets her fingers rest on Arthur's for a moment longer than necessary when his hand comes up to take the place of hers. He spares a second to wonder what she thought when Leon called Uther, if she guessed who Arthur had gotten into a fight with and why. She'd been there when Owain found Arthur and Merlin in the library, after all, so she probably put two and two together.

But she doesn't look like she'll comment on the matter any time soon—usually, Arthur tends to find Morgana's occasional secretiveness annoying, but this time he's grateful for it. "Tea?" she asks, passing an inquiring look around the room; Leon smiles fondly at her, and Merlin and Lance exchange a puzzled glance before nodding.

"I'll help," Uther says, his tone almost relieved, and readily follows Morgana towards the kitchen. Belatedly, Arthur realizes what it must have cost his father to remain silent until now and not to shower him with questions and have one of his lawyers sue Owain for assault. It's what he probably would have done if it had just been the three of them; but the presence of Arthur's friends must have shown him, however subtly, that this is nothing that can be solved with a phone call.

Now, though, he seems almost glad for the chance to do _something_ , even if it's just making tea and not calling his lawyers—or Gaius, for that matter. Morgana steps aside to let Uther walk past her into the kitchen before she follows, pointedly pulling the door almost shut behind her—she probably wants to give them some privacy, but doesn't dare close the door completely in case Arthur keels over or something undignified like that.

Left alone with Leon, Lance, and Merlin, Arthur suddenly feels rather crowded although Merlin has still not stepped into the room, and carefully shifts the ice pack a little higher. They're all looking at him, too, inquisitive, slightly concerned gazes that he doesn't know how to react to. It's not like he's ever been in this kind of ludicrous situation before—things like that just don't _happen_ to him, and right now he can't even recall when he last got into a fistfight with anyone, least of all someone he'd called his friend until he tried to beat up Merlin. Merlin, who seems to wear his heart on his sleeve in a way that just makes him all the harder to figure out, who did his best to help Arthur with his essay, and whose too-blue eyes betrayed not a single ounce of hesitation when he'd kissed Arthur in the dim quietude of the locker room.

"I—," he starts, his voice coming out hoarse with disuse—his mind is utterly blank of coherent thought, and he has no idea what he _could_ say, but the decision is taken out of his hands a second later.

Leon sighs explosively, folding his arms across his chest and looking down at Arthur with a slightly impatient frown. "If you're going to insist that you're not gay _one more time_ ," he says, sounding torn between exasperation and belligerence, "then I'll—"

"Don't hit him," Morgana's voice floats over from the adjacent room, and Arthur silently curses the gap that she left between the door and its frame. "Normally I wouldn't object, but he's battered enough as it is."

A sickening jolt goes through Arthur when he realizes that his father is in the kitchen too, he's probably heard every word as well, although the clatter of teacups never stops. For a long, dangerous moment, Arthur can't do anything but feel his stomach turn and think, vaguely, that he's going to be sick all over the ancient table. But then the feeling passes, leaving him with cold sweat beading at the back of his neck and nausea settling low in his gut. He swallows hard, and tries again. "But I—"

"I think you should stop getting to hung up about what you're _not_ ," Lance speaks up suddenly, and Arthur belatedly realizes that _he_ didn't know either—even though there _is_ nothing to know just yet, as a tiny stubborn voice in the back of his mind keeps insisting. He didn't talk to Lance about this at all, about the mess that Owain has been making of his team and everything else, not even when his best friend asked.

Lance sounds unusually decisive, too, like he's long ago caught on to the fact that Arthur was hiding something from him and is not too pleased about it, although he's still willing to offer all the advice he can. "How about you think about what you _are_ instead?" he says, an earnestness in his eyes that's hard to look away from. "I mean— Merlin's a nice guy."

Arthur blinks, Merlin shifts in the doorway and coughs a little, and Arthur doesn't have to look his way to know that a faint flush has risen to his face. Lance looks a trifle embarrassed, but not nearly as mortified as he _should_ be in Arthur's opinion, because self-respecting high school students don't just _say_ things like that. But in a way, Lance's always been like that—too honest at heart to feel truly awkward when he's speaking his mind.

No one seems to know what to say to that, least of all Arthur, and they all jump as the kettle's whistle announces that their tea is almost ready from the kitchen. He's too tired to mull that over now, like he knows he will tomorrow, but acceptance was _not_ what he expected, mostly because he's still not sure whether he wants to know if there's anything to _be_ accepted at all. His thoughts feel a bit like the inconsequential splash of pebbles being thrown into the still waters of a deep lake, the pull of exhaustion slowing down his mind.

Morgana comes in carrying a tray, Uther trailing behind her, and no one speaks when they sit down; Morgana catches Merlin's eye and inclines her head towards the still empty chair beside her with a half-smile. Obediently, Merlin shuffles over and sits down between her and Lance, his posture hunched a little as though he wants to blend into the background, and gives Morgana a lopsided smile that doesn't look quite real.

The grandfather clock is ticking into the silence, only interrupted by the hushed sounds of everyone blowing on their tea and taking first hesitant sips. It's so hot that Arthur burns his tongue with his first too-large gulp, but it actually appeases the queasiness a little. Leon has sat back down as well, on Arthur's other side this time; he's bracketed securely between him and Lance, but to his own vague surprise, Arthur doesn't feel all that trapped.

The cup of tea settles comfortably in his belly, making him drowsy on top of slightly warmer than before; the ice pack has warmed as well, and Arthur puts it down on the table. His head still hurts, but it's more of a dulled sting by now, and it makes him optimistic enough to think that he might be able to stomach a painkiller before going to bed.

To his surprise, it's Merlin who breaks the silence, putting his empty cup down with extra care as though he realizes that he's handling rather expensive porcelain. "I think I need to go home," he says, voice quiet and hesitant. Sure enough, it's pitch dark outside, although Arthur has no idea how much time passed between the fight and now. "My mom—"

"I'll drive you," Lance says instantly, seeming eager to be able to offer his help. "I know where you live." There's a short silence as he contemplates what he just said; then he grimaces a little and adds, "And that sounded really creepy, sorry."

Merlin smiles, a real smile this time, one that reaches his eyes and lights up the relief Arthur is surprised to find there. Merlin didn't _appear_ all that nervous, he hid it well once again, but Arthur realizes that he must have been all along, awkwardly trying to gauge Arthur's friends' reactions to him, and is now astonished and relieved to find himself accepted into their circle.

Morgana gets up from her chair, shooting a meaningful look at Uther, who blinks at her in incomprehension for a moment before he rises too, muttering something about email. Arthur nearly smiles at that—in any other situation, it would be strangely entertaining to see his usually stoic father so out of his depth. Leon gives him a worried glance when Arthur struggles into a standing position as well, but Arthur ignores it, routine taking over—he's going to see his guests to the door, the pain in his ribs be damned.

The blast of cold air wakes him up a little again when he opens the front door, but he's still not fast enough to dodge the quick, one-armed hug Lance pulls him into, all the while mindful of Arthur's bruised ribs. It feels odd to be held so carefully, and Arthur is a little horrified to feel his throat constrict even as Lance orders him, in a low, stern voice, to call him the next day. He nods into Lance's shoulder—not because he doesn't feel like arguing, but because he doesn't quite trust his voice—and can't help the relieved, shaky sigh that escapes him when Lance lets him go.

At Lance's meaningful look, Leon hurries to clap Arthur on the back and mutter something about how he hopes he'll recover faster than Owain, and hastily follows Lance down the front steps to the battered car. Belatedly, Arthur realizes that they're trying to give him and Merlin some privacy—Merlin must have come to the same conclusion, because he rolls his eyes, turning to Arthur with a cautious smile.

His eyes are clear and dark in the dim light from the entrance hall, and he's not quite as pale anymore, like the single cup of tea was enough to restore his spirits even after everything that happened today. But once again, Arthur can't tear his gaze away from the purplish bruise on his cheek, standing out darkly against his skin. It'll hurt for days to come, little twinges of pain whenever he smiles too widely; and tomorrow Merlin will probably steal his mother's make-up to cover up the worst of the damage and avoid questions.

He's so caught up in his thoughts that he nearly doesn't notice the way Merlin's smile turns wry and he rolls his eyes. "I've had worse," he says, his voice quiet yet decisive. "And I _could_ have had worse today."

"You're welcome," Arthur replies dumbly, since it seems like the right thing to say, and also because he knows that even if he managed to get out an apology, Merlin would just deflect it.

Merlin lets out a long sigh, his breath fogging up the cold winter air, and looks down for a moment; Arthur sees that he's toying with his sleeves once more. But when he raises his eyes again, he holds Arthur's gaze with the same decisive calm that Arthur has gotten so used to seeing from him. Arthur still doesn't know what's real, the nervous motions of his hands or the unselfconscious openness of his gaze, but for the first time he finds himself thinking that it's probably both.

"It's alright," he says, and hesitates for a long moment, seeming to think very carefully about what he's going to say. His voice is hushed, as though he was letting Arthur in on a secret. "Not to know what you want, I mean. Been there, done that, and all those things."

He holds up a hand when Arthur opens his mouth to speak, and for once Arthur obeys and shuts it again, not really sure what he was about to say anyway—the sudden rush of blood in his ears is loud enough to drown out all coherent thought. "So," Merlin continues, and he'd sound like he did in the library when he tried to wrap his head around the algebra Arthur explained to him, if it weren't for the faint tremor in his voice, "how about I help you figure out what you want, and we take it from there?"

The silence stretches long enough for Arthur's pulse to stumble and speed up, a bit belatedly, like it's taken a few seconds for the words to fully register with him, despite the fact that Arthur almost saw them coming. After all, if there's one thing he's sure about where Merlin is concerned, it's that he doesn't give up easily—sure, he retreats on occasion to regroup his thoughts and figure out a better strategy, although he never backs off completely. But like Merlin wrote to him in the library, this is not a fight, and Merlin is not seeking to win any ground from him, and he won't lose anything if he lets his guard down for long enough to truly think about what Merlin is asking.

That's precisely the reason why Arthur has no idea how to react, though, and he swallows convulsively, curiously unable to break Merlin's gaze. He can still hear the crunch of snow nearby where Lance and Leon are slowly walking towards the car, talking in low tones as though to avoid eavesdropping at all costs. They probably know what they're discussing anyway, but Arthur is still grateful for the small measure of privacy, because he knows he wouldn't have let Merlin say what he said if anyone else had been listening.

Something else occurs to him, though, a nagging thought that pushes itself to the front of his mind, now unhindered by the helpless frustration he'd felt in the locker room. Arthur takes a deep breath, and just blurts it out before the strained quietude makes him lose his nerve, frankly too tired to even second-guess what he should or shouldn't be saying anymore. "What about Mordred?"

Unsurprisingly, Merlin turns his gaze towards the sky again, like he's praying for assistance in dealing with Arthur's obtuseness. "If you had just _listened to me_ the other day when I tried to explain—," he starts, exasperated, but Arthur thinks that he also sounds thrilled, relieved, almost, as though the question was enough to tip him over into hopefulness. "Mordred's a nice enough guy when he wants to be, but I don't like him that way. I like _you_."

"Oh," Arthur says, stupidly, and tries in vain to will away the heat he can feel rising to his face, even more acute in the cold air. "Well. That's—"

He trails off into blank silence, opening and closing his mouth a few times as he tries to figure out what to say in reply. But Merlin flashes a relieved grin at him, although Arthur didn't miss the slight embarrassment that flitted across his features, like he'd spared a split-second to mentally berating himself for that too-bold statement. "You don't have to decide what you think of that yet," he answers, calm and reassuring once more, now that they're off the proverbial minefield—well, for Merlin, that is. His gaze flickers to the bruise marring the side of Arthur's face, and Arthur sees his left hand twitch as though he's stifling the urge to reach out. "Just— get well soon, for now, yeah?"

"Okay," Arthur replies, his voice a trifle shakier than he'd like it to be, but he figures it can be excused by now. "I'll do that."

"Good," Merlin tells him, solemnly this time, and his eyes soften visibly even as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, relaxing out of the straight-backed stance he'd unconsciously assumed earlier. Arthur has no idea why it makes him feel slightly better to recognize the little tell-tale signs of shared uncertainty that Merlin can't hide, no matter how hard he tries; but somehow it does.

"See you at school?" Arthur ventures after a pause, suddenly acutely aware of the fact that the sound of footsteps has stopped, and that Leon and Lance are probably waiting for Merlin at Lance's car, standing around awkwardly in the cold and trying not to listen.

Merlin's face brightens into another smile, and he nods. He makes a hesitant, aborted movement towards him, as though contemplating whether to stick out his hand for Arthur to shake like he did with Uther earlier, but then he touches Arthur's arm, and lets his fingers trail down Arthur's sleeve, carefully. The air is cold, but Merlin's hand is not, in spite of his scrawniness, and even through the fabric of Arthur's shirt, it warms him.

"See you around, then," Merlin says, his voice decisive; but he waits for Arthur's answering nod before he steps back, his touch trailing away, and turns around to walk down the front steps and towards the waiting car that Arthur can just barely make out in the darkness.

He doesn't look back, but there's a bounce in his step that wasn't there before, and Arthur retreats into the hall and closes the door before Lance and Leon can see him look after Merlin with the beginnings of a smile quirking his mouth.

Fatigue is still heavy on his mind like a water-logged blanket, but although Arthur would be free to go to bed now, he finds himself wandering towards the living room instead. A slant of dim light illuminates the hallway through the half-open door, and Morgana is sitting on the couch when Arthur walks in, the room plunged into a hazy half-light by the single reading lamp next to her.

She looks up at him in surprise, a book in her lap and sheets of paper spread out around her—probably catching up on her homework, although it's not usually like her to procrastinate. Arthur pauses, feeling tired and awkward just standing in the middle of the room like a discarded piece of furniture, but Morgana quickly clears the space next to herself and motions for him to sit down with a hint of her usual imperiousness.

Arthur rolls his eyes, but his feet carry him over to the couch without his consent. Just sitting down is a relief, and he can feel the warmth of the room slowly seep through his chilled skin, warming him up again after those long minutes of standing outside. Morgana doesn't say anything, just turns back to her book; Arthur feels a part of him relax that he didn't even know had been tense in the first place, and he doesn't pull away when Morgana shifts her weight slightly, causing their hands to brush.

He breathes out slowly, mindful of the soreness of his ribs, and settles back into the cushions, tipping his head back to rest against the back of the couch. The ticking of the clock in the dining room is the only sound breaking the silence, save for the occasional rustle of paper when Morgana turns a page of her book. Arthur feels the accumulated tension slowly melt out of his muscles although his head has started to hurt again, blunt, occasional twinges that feel like someone is poking at his sore eye. Still, he thinks drowsily that he could almost fall asleep like this, until he suddenly hears the door to his father's office open and close, and Uther walks into the room a moment later, exchanging a brief, questioning look with Morgana before sitting down on Arthur's other side.

Arthur is too exhausted to even blink at him in incomprehension, and his father studiously avoids his gaze anyway, leaning over instead to idly pick up a sheet of paper from where Morgana tossed it onto the table. It seems to be a print-out of typed lecture notes, and Uther settles back into the couch as well, apparently content to just sit there and skim over what Morgana has written and not shower Arthur with a barrage of questions.

It's weird to just sit there, with the back of Morgana's hand resting against his own, a little too casually to be accidental, and his shoulder pressed to his father's arm on the other side. It reminds him a little of Christmas when they sometimes sit together like this, when the presents have been opened after a few glasses of expensive wine. But even then, something usually happens to shatter the quietude before it can settle—Uther gets up to check his email inbox, or Morgana and Arthur start texting their friends their best wishes for the holiday season.

Nothing happens now, though, and no one even speaks, and suddenly Arthur is so fiercely grateful for the silence that he's helpless to stop the feeling from knotting into a lump in his throat. He swallows it down with some difficulty and settles back into the couch, thinking drowsily that the sound of Morgana turning the pages could lull him to sleep, although he knows that they'll rouse him and herd him off to bed if he does fall asleep. There's still tomorrow to be taken care of, after all, when neither his nor Merlin's bruises will have faded enough not to attract questioning glances, and he still needs to fill Owain's vacated spot on the team.

And he'll eventually have to figure out that other thing too, the thing that has been squirming restlessly at the back of his head and finally surged up bright and blazing today, coaxed to life by the feeling of Merlin's chapped lips on his. For now, though, Arthur is tired enough not to let the thought of tomorrow bother him, and he lets his good eye drift shut at last, barely noticing that outside, it has begun to snow.


End file.
